Twelve
by Kaitsurinu
Summary: Update! A.C. 205: A lonely Duo drifts into Seattle and finds out that he’s not alone. A painful twist of fate reunites Duo and Heero in a police station, with a few sore teeth. A forgotten invitation, a coffee shop, and–a wedding?
1. You Can Sleep In The Garage

  
Twelve  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Hey, you can try to sue me… but that's just not goat. Don't take my Nirvana CDs either, then I'd have to go kung fu on your ass, if I knew how. I don't own Gundam Wing, Bandai, or whatever. Not Kurdt Kobayne either. Damn.  
  
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2  
  
Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.   
  
  
  
  
Chapter 1 Preview  
  
A.C. 205: A lonely, rolling stone Duo drifts into Seattle and finds out that he's not alone in the Rainy City. A painful twist of fate reunites Duo and Heero in a police station, causing a few sore teeth. A forgotten invitation, homemade salmon fettuccine in a coffee shop, and – a wedding?!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 1  
"You Can Sleep in the Garage"  
  
  
  
  
  
December 9, A.C. 205  
  
  
Seattle, Earth. It'd long been a bustling city by the sea, all too familiar with the linty grayness of rain clouds and the crystal morning mists and the boisterous shouts as glistening silver fish were tossed from the sunrise fishermen to the shipment trucks for the hungry masses Northeastern Americans. Puffs of inky smoke rose from the old-fashioned factories dotted along the shore, whirling and squawking seagulls chattered and scuttled their ways across parking lots, and cars gunned to work along congested highways. Umbrellas bobbed at the ready, hooked to each master's pocket or belt loop. The mists and dew glistened along the glassy skyscrapers, along the stationary cars, collecting in hair and clothes and eyelashes. Thick-soled shoes clicked monotonously along the moist cement to accompany the flittering, diminishing bird whistles that seemed to disappear with the pre-dawn.   
  
It was a seemingly peaceful city; serene amongst the guttural calls of various machines and transit and seduced by the seeping blue presence of the Pacific Ocean inlet. Cars jerked in and out of unsteady waiting, dispersed by the flickering of green and red lights, peeling off the main highways to the grungy individual streets like the skin off an orange. It was barely past 5:30, when the congestion began to clog. Radios clicked on, accompanied by frustrated sighs, as traffic reports came in. An average day in Seattle was not what it seemed. Industrialized, raw, and rainy.   
  
After the A.C. War, a shower of bits of debris had pelted into the Pacific Ocean and rabid salvagers and mechanics flocked to Seattle to pick off the new feed, which could last as much as four to seven years. Seattle was the natural port for this salvage and its numbers grew in great swells, fed by the incessant birth rate and dropping death rate and immigrating workmen. It grew and it didn't stop. It rained and it didn't stop. Seattle was on the upswing and running with it, while war had ravaged other thriving American cites and left them pocked with depressions and economic scars.  
  
A Northwestern Air plane, just a run of the mill plane out of hundreds identical ones, swooped toward the ground at the Seattle airport at 7:58, earlier than normal. It had a lighter than normal load and one which was stingy on precautions, obviously, which contributed to the rareness of being a head of schedule instead of hideously behind. The first seven rows collectively held only 8 people who had decided to space themselves as far was demurely possible. Anti-social in nature, they were content to sip their coffee off the cart and close themselves off into their own internal conversation, which the attendant didn't mind one bit. The ninth, the last to be inhabited in the entire plane, held only one person who was gravitated naturally to the window seat on the right side.   
  
He held a blue Bic pen in one hand and idly chewed on it as he watched the ground lurch up at him from his window with little interest. He'd seen thousands of landings on shuttles, water, land, and space alike, and it fazed him as much as flies faze an old crusty horse. The wheels of the plane gave a slight hiss as they connected again with the Earth and had to give into gravity. The young man blinked out of his daze and pulled the pen from his mouth.   
  
Since when did I start getting these nervous habits? He thought to himself, as he was brought back to reality by the flight attendant emerging from behind him, shoving the curtain hastily aside, clearly sick of its presence.   
  
It looked heavy as burlap, and only slightly prettier in a shade of mud. He smiled slightly, noticing the harsh, unjustly unpleasant expression he received, which turned into a buttery nothing as she realized she wasn't allowed to take out her frustrations out on passengers, no matter how bad they were. She haughtily walked up the aisle, the anger she was dying to express manifested in a self-destructive lip chew and the extra swagger in her generous strut. A head poked out into the isle, belonging to the young man with long brown hair, and a grin lit on his lips.   
  
The exact charm of her sky blue skirt and inky pantyhose, paired with the sour-as-a-tart expression, was tempting. It made him want to wink his baby blues at her and try to make her even more aggravated. It did no harm, right? She couldn't take action against him just by making her a little sourer than before – she couldn't prove nuthing! Besides, he'd always enjoyed getting a rise out of stone-faced people and it'd been denied from him for far too long. He missed the thrill of pounding against that stone and seeing if he could smash it. He ducked his head in before she could turn around.  
  
Static. Feedback. The wisecracking pilot using the cockpit radio came on the P.A. and the twenty-six-year-old in back listened with mild interest.   
  
"Well, passengers, it's a beautiful morning in Seattle," the pilot said causally, "and we didn't crash. So get out there and enjoy yourself. There's a good waffle skillet at Ma Susan's on Sixtieth and Aberdeen so I suggest you have breakfast. You too, anorexics."   
  
Laugher rose and fell futilely. The flight attendant passed again, the young man not aware she'd gone past him again, laughing, as she went to help with the docking procedures. The young man watched numbly her brunette hair swing and the rest of her body move in time with it. He glanced down on his long hair stretched over his shoulder and imagined if he ever did that. He quickly was cut off, as the people in front of him shot out of their seats reservedly, in a hurry to attend to whatever they were going to, but more conscious of what was perceived of their rush. They frittered after the slow people, visibly gnawing at their bits. It made him want to laugh. Jeeze, he thought to himself with mock enthusiasm, this plane is full of fun people!  
  
The women, clutching their dirt-colored suitcases, moved in a professional group of four and exited the plane together. A few men also dressed in pressed suits and taking the last long swings of their coffee, left soon after them. It became a sort of game, watching and predicting who would exit the plane next.   
  
A leisurely old woman, her old gray hair held back loosely by strings of beads, got up after shuffling through her purse. That left him and a clumsy Italian girl with her obvious beauty burdened by a pair of thick, Buddy Holly glasses. She left momentarily, and it left him sitting, with carry-on in lap, alone on the plane, staring at the attendant. The attendant, meeting his eyes with stony ones, popped a bubblegum bubble and he laughed quietly to himself, finally leaving as well. One he was walking down the hallway, she left to prepare more food for the next flight. She glanced briefly back down the hall and rolled her eyes, scoffing.  
  
That idiot was whistling.  
  
  
  
  
  
It was a slow morning. Thick, sluggish, and run of the mill, but not unpleasantly so.  
  
With a tiny, contented sigh, a man with long, calloused, tan hands fluttered rapidly through a flipbook of white paper and black text, then scuttled the clipboard over and pounced on the idle keyboard, bringing the sleeping computer back to life.   
  
His chair complained of old, rusty wheels, but knew its cries were ignored. Despite its owner's light weight, years had caught up to it long ago and it was audible and verbal. The air murmured slightly with the compliant and comforting hum of a heater rattling somewhere deep in the dark blue walls surrounding him, hiding behind desks and snapshots of genial-looking officers. It was a white noise that calmed him down, although today it didn't look like he'd be needing it that much. No patrolling today. The reports and files and text that bloomed into windows on his laptop suggested a casual, peaceful day of filing reports at a distance from the actual happenings and soothing coffees spiced with sweet, idle conversation. Normal, average, mediocre, the picture of peace…   
  
Perfect.  
  
One hand strayed from its incessant typing on the keyboard to grasp a fresh cup of decaffeinated coffee and the brown-haired man drew deeply, his dark blue eyes jumping from word to word on the screen. Early light filtered through the blinded window overhead and warmed the skin on his face. It was a familiar position, much preferred over the confining black fabric of a cop car seat. Much preferred over the manslaughter of his teen years. So maybe the peaceful jobs meant a painful absence of a gun, which had been inbred into his paranoia as a need, in his pocket but as long as he never needed it again, Heero Yuy wouldn't miss it for a second. He didn't need a promotion, at least from here, sitting in the sun, coffee in his stomach, and the security of knowing he'd live to the next wonderfully mundane morning, he didn't feel like he needed one.  
  
April, creamy-wheat colored hair tightly restrained in a ponytail, leaned into Heero's desk and gave that quick quirk of a smile that contradicted her painstakingly precise stare. Like always, one side of her collar wasn't properly flipped out. She put her elbow on the top of Heero's laptop and waved another stack of manila folders in his direction. "Good morning, Heero," she cooed, apparently in a good mood. "Always ready to sit on your ass and exercise that gray matter, aren't you? I don't understand you. You never want to be out there, in the action!"  
  
The Japanese man withdrew a bit as the papers landed on his lap in a neat, orderly pile. "You don't need to understand me, though."  
  
"I'd like to." Her lips titled with absurdity. "Maybe then you wouldn't creep me out as much."  
  
Dark bangs in his face, Heero briskly read through the lines of text like a machine, without the cold abrasiveness that would have been painfully obvious five years ago but now had sunken deep somewhere. He didn't satisfy her witty remark with a glance, he wouldn't. He paged through another segment. "I can't help it, I guess."  
  
She pointed at him accusingly, unable to resist a grin. "Your smile could scare the scales off a hydra. I'm not exaggerating."  
  
He wanted to smile, half to spite her, half out of the humor of it. "I'm sorry, April. The next time I plan to smile, I'll remember to lock myself in a dark padded room where no one can see and won't be frightened."   
  
Her gray eyes locked on his, a bit wide. "Now, I didn't mean to be mean."  
  
Heero tossed the leafed-through manila folders onto the input pile that dwarfed the immaculately empty output one and quickly typed something in, glancing up to his female comrade every so often to met her gaze. "I know. I haven't had much practice with smiling."  
  
"Can't your love help you with smiling more like a normal person?" she teased, tapping on the desk.  
  
"Not here." He titled his head, closing his thick, chocolate-lashed eyes and letting his face relax. "Probably not ever."  
  
"Hm, you're impossible, Yuy," she bantered.  
  
"I know that," he commented coolly, face again lit by the unreal blue tint of the computer. He absently rubbed at the faint shadow of a beard that had been ghosting through his skin lately and itched at his nose, not noticing the girl curtly leave on a request to inspect some suspicious youth on the corner with shifty eyes and bulging pockets. Prussian eyes moved like a typewriter again as the Japanese pressed on with his contenting, lazy work and felt the sun rise on his skin and in the sky.  
  
A fellow officer, Elijah, dropped in only a minute later and complained of his sore back, which was accented by the flushed, agonized expression he held and the fragile yet violently arched back. He was sent home after bending over for a pen had sealed his fate for the workday in the cooing worry of his wife's right arm as she drove him home to spend the day with his kids.   
  
Standing in the doorway and breathing the cold crisp air and watching Elijah leave, he felt a pang of jealously yank his stomach down hard, wishing he could have his own kids to come home to, and they'd greet him with happy faces. Heero suddenly felt an odd feeling come up in his belly again, at the thought of kids. Blonde ones, with pink little lips and high-pitched voices and sky blue eyes… he wasn't sure exactly what it was, if it was even definite enough to have a name, but it felt like an anvil suddenly taking permanent residence in his stomach. Hard. Almost nauseating. His clouding breath brought him back to the real world, snapping the train of thought, and Heero watched Elijah's car drive away and the rest of the police men and women pile back into the warmth of the office, then walked inside with hands pocketed.  
  
John U., the gnarled veteran of the Seattle police forced, waved Heero over as soon as he was inside and rubbing some warmth into his fingers so he could resume typing. His ruddy, perky face was just a hiding place for a tough, smart man probably from a war, just like Heero, who'd found police work in this rainy city a good substitute for war that was like nicotine. "Heero!" he called, waving his empty coffee mug.  
  
Heero stared at him for a second, face unreadable.  
  
"Whippersnapper! – Hey!" he said quieter this time, as the cold-eyed Japanese man paused at John U's desk, leaning slightly forward in his half-tucked blue shirt and black slacks.   
  
"Yessir?" His voice was flat and open to suggestion.  
  
Dark black eyes met his genially, as they had for the last three years. John smiled. "I can count on you not to throw your back out, right? If I can't count on you, our police station will be ruined!"  
  
Heero's natural good-natured sarcasm blossomed on his face. "In shambles, I'm sure."   
  
The slightly portly man leaned back in his chair. "Would you mind taking care of Elijah's post, Heero? I really don't think you'd be typing more than some teenager complaints for the remainder of the day, especially with those kids having the whipped cream party at that damn hippie high-school…"  
  
"The Art School?" Heero folded his arms. "Brilliant modernists there," he commented with the air of an experienced art scholar.  
  
"Whatever," John waved with a slightly soured expression. "You wouldn't mind, though?"  
  
"Of course not," he complied in a flat honey tone. "I haven't been at the front desk for years. And to think I that I wouldn't have sat in reception for my entire career if you hadn't just proposed I do so. What was I missing? What was I thinking?" His voice was wet gravel – unremarkable and monotone.  
  
"I'm sorry if I embarrass you by turning over control of reception to you, and I know how much you like the anti-social life—"   
  
The dark-haired Asian man waved it off. "Apology accepted."  
  
The next half-hour involved only a nonchalant promenade between different coffee machines, speaks of conversation doused with professionalism and casualness, and the morning paper. Heero scanned the headlines, skipping over the sniper shootings deliberately, and felt his body well up with another surge of mundane happiness. No more war… Eyes on the paper, he reached over for his pen on the counter, dashed somewhere between the iris flowers and form papers on clipboards on the counter. He clicked it idle back and forth in habit, and then gnawed at it once, reading an article that subconsciously made him a bit uncomfortable. Heero realized that plastic taste in his mouth was a pen, and then quickly drew it out. He stared down at it for a second, then tossed on the desk. Pulling his feet off the counter, he ducked inside the office and went to find a pencil so he could waste his time on the crossword. Heero's lean form disappeared back behind an impersonal wooden door, in eerie synchronism with the opening of the glass one out front.  
  
Sunglasses perched on a pert nose, as a Bic pen was whirled around between long fingers. An elfin figure sauntered through the doorway, as a tinny bell rang from somewhere over his head. The young man of about 25, dressed in a light black jacket and not-so-modestly-fitting black pants, leaned against the glass door and peered about the empty reception area, which was contradicted by the murmur of activity in back. It was sparsely decorated, too. The only ostentation to be found was the vase of purple and white iris and a few chairs to the left and a potted palm tree. Stingy people. Adjusting his bold sunglasses, he sauntered up to the seemingly abandoned counter and shouldered his backpack more tightly. He looked down and saw a chair with a newspaper laid over it. Someone was here, somewhere, he thought.  
  
Flipping his brown hair over his shoulder, the man leaned forward. "Hello? Someone here?"  
  
No answer came.   
  
Oddly colored eyes flickered in uncertainty. He glanced down and saw a tiny little bell waiting for him and he slammed his hand down a few times, listening for any sounds of people coming or even moving in his direction from the offices in the back. "Excuse me, I'd like to turn in some money I found!" he called, louder this time, directed more at the closed door behind the desk. "If no body cares, then I'm gonna keep it!"  
  
He frowned, poking idly at his bugling backpack. The man sighed and then threw up his hands, sauntering back and forth with his hands on his hips a few feet then turning impatiently back to the reception desk.   
  
A few more rings of the pounded bell broke the silence and the young man stood waiting. He stared at the door. "Give me a break," he muttered, scratching his head.  
  
Turning around to look at the street in habit, his sunglasses suddenly slipped off his nose and clattered to the floor. The pair was so ancient that when it hit, the left earpiece popped out of its socket.   
  
"Damn," the violet eyed man grumbled, leaning down to pick it up. It was a sacred piece to him, almost as important as the tiny glint of a gold necklace around his neck. He'd had it for what… ten years now? and he wouldn't give it up.  
  
Heero noiselessly reappeared; he was twirling the pencil he'd been after between his fingers like a pro and with little effort. He left the door slightly ajar and returned to his swivel chair, hands around his newspaper again. As he sat down as silently as a panther, his war-hardened eyes locked onto the black item lounging on his counter when it hadn't been there previously. He glanced from side to side of the room, searching for an owner of a tattered, barely strung old backpack that seemed hauntingly familiar for some reason. At the same time, the young man was snapping his beaten-up sunglasses back into the correct form and slipped them onto his face coolly, out of sight. He grumbled and stood up.  
  
Simultaneously, Heero leaned over the counter.   
  
Fate intervened, hard.  
  
Heero grunted in sharp, spiking pain as his chin was smashed with something solid, silky, and definitely moving. His bones cracked suddenly and teeth clamped down on a warm presence in his mouth, drowning his mouth in a watery, metallic flavor. A yelp echoed through the cold walls and Heero couldn't help but let out his own contortion of pain and withdrew, mumbling. The man with the backpack, rubbed at his head, then turned see to just what he hit, through his dark sunglasses. A brunette man was holding at his face, sloshing what seemed like blood in his mouth. Ripping his sunglasses off, he bolted up and began apologizing furiously.   
  
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you! Are you okay?" he said anxiously, eyes wide and apologetic. "Oh, please don't hold your face like that – it's making me feel guilty! God, I'm sorry!"  
  
Heero's grip around his aching mouth loosened instantly, his heart stopping suddenly as he recognized the voice. Faces rushed back, breaking the mental chains that had hidden them, one in particular, one he'd recognize anywhere. Lively, peach, heart-shaped, and purple eyes. Deep, accentuated, demonstrative voice. Long, long hair, gung-ho grins. Shinigami conviction beneath it all.  
  
Duo Maxwell. He whipped his head up as if he wasn't fast enough, he would disappear.  
  
He definitely looked like Heero hadn't seen him in nine years, which he hadn't. Duo seemed caught in a freeze frame. Years had done little for his general height and build besides adjust it slightly, ripening it into a perfectly proportioned body that had long forgotten its bony waif roots. A blue wife beater displayed the top of his chest boldly in the Seattle rain and snow and cold, covered by a loose, casual black leather jacket and finished with a worn pair of black jeans, the dark denim lightened at his knees from walking. He seemed collectively more openly mature, more masculine and more fluid and self-confident, yet tinged with a little weariness. His arms were even more masculine, coated with fine golden-brown hairs that were much more noticeable than they had been in the war. His legs were longer in comparison to his body, his shoulders broader and cocked with much more bravado. Duo's trademark braid was now currently swung over his shoulder, a thick, silky rope that swung the rubber binder at his knees, insanely elongated. His round, heart-shaped face with the slightly ruddy cheeks was definitely matured, only portions having not changed. A gold-brown shadow of a beard ringed his face, stubble around his lip. His nose was basically the same, as was his strong chin. His lips seemed to have broadened to accommodate his facial expression. His cheekbones had risen or his cheeks had thinned out, although they still retained some slight baby fat. His eyebrows were thicker, but more becoming. Those unreal violet eyes weren't as wide and innocent as they had been, if they had had any innocence true or feigned in them before, but now were more intense, multihued, and almost ungodly purple. They could still pierce his stoic defenses.   
  
Meanwhile, the American stood, breathless, suddenly face to face with his old best friend, the haunter of his thoughts. While Heero stared at him, Duo stared back with an anvil-dropped jaw.  
  
'Oh my god…'  
  
Heero was so much different than the Deathscythe pilot had pictured he'd be at age 25, but this different wasn't bad, not by a long shot. The first things his eyes flew to were those dark Prussian orbs, slightly slanted and ghostly piercing and infinite. There were dark and brooding, inhuman still with stoicism, but they were so more warm and melting than ever before. In them, past the thin, artist-quality dashes of blue and black and azure in his iris, he could see the years layered in dappling effect, could see the stories and places and new experiences in those eyes. He could see laughter embedded deep into them and felt a stab of pain, wondering if he had invoked any of that laughter. He seemed half and half; half Perfect Soldier, half new and improved Heero Yuy. His stony Asian face had softened into a glow of light tan skin and enriched features. There were telltale dimples just past the corner of his lips, proof that the absence of his precious Wing Zero hadn't depressed him to the point of emptiness. His adolescent pug nose had all but disappeared and evolved into a perfectly carved one. His dark brown hair was still unkempt and wild and danced in his eyes when he moved, a pinwheel of thick chocolate bangs. Those arms that could bend steel, although hidden by fabric, appeared to be as chiseled as they'd been in the wartime. They no longer looked like metal pinchers with a skin covering, but like real arms. His Japanese heritage was more pronounced now, in his slight but strong frame, perfectly muscled and hiding the fifteen years of intensive pilot training. Duo swallowed a huge, dry lump in his throat once he laid eyes on the good-looking blue uniform. He seemed like some ghost of Heero Yuy, even more seamless than during the war in those spandex shorts and loose green tank top. Suddenly, he noticed—  
  
A smile?!   
  
"Duo," he said flatly, obviously smothering his emotions again but not without a disarming, paradoxical grin.  
  
"HEERO!"   
  
In record time, the invincible Heero Yuy was knocked to the ground like no soldier, no mercenary, no mobile suit, or anything on the face of the earth would have been allowed to without complete and instantaneous death, and Duo mussed his hair with a laugh.  
  
Seconds later the disheveled brunette was back up, jerked to his feet by the familiar calloused hands of his American comrade and found himself staring into two purple eyes and a caricature smile. He straightened out the wrinkles in his blue shirt, something the intently watching Duo wasn't surprised about, and ran a few fingers through his hair for a second. "Good to see you, Duo," he said, genially meeting eyes and using just the right words in the right tone.  
  
Nervously, Duo blinked over a numb jaw, then managed out a "Hi" out of pure habit. How the hell did Heero manage to act so calm with all this bubbly stuff in his stomach? Didn't he have it?  
  
"Hi," Heero parroted, waiting for Duo's garrulousness to kick in.  
  
The American gave a wry smile, cockily tilted to one side, and laughed. He could have stood there laughing at his old best friend and heard an alarm and thought to run to Deathscythe on instinct; he felt like they'd never separated. He could almost picture Wufei coming in through the door and growling at him. It was if those damning, friendless nine years had been a blink opening his eyes, creating, something familiar and smiling.  
  
"Come here, Hee-chan," Duo said finally, after staring with a big grin. He jumped at Heero in another bear hug and suddenly felt the gundanium-snapping arms vice around his waist and lift him effortlessly off the ground.  
  
"Hi," he said again, half-mockingly.  
  
"Oof, Heero!" he squeaked in surprise, eyes wide. "Hee-chan, put me down! Choking—windpipe! Aah!"  
  
The Japanese man laughed softly into Duo's coat and evilly grinned against the fabric. Simultaneously, the captive held suspended three feet from the safety of earth and gravity stared down at the top of Heero's dark, tousled hair, a contortion of disbelief lit on his face. A few anvils did dances in his stomach, feeling the Japanese pilot's nose press into his bellybutton. He gulped down a thick lump in his dry throat with equally dry lips, unable to find any moisture in his mouth. Is this really Heero? Laughing?!  
  
The imp in the Wing pilot's voice glinted dangerously, while he stared up at Duo's chin. "Put you down? …Nimyu Ryokai."  
  
"Oh shi—Heero, no!"   
  
Duo was unceremoniously dropped to the floor and subdued laughter followed. Even the injured-bottom Maxwell cracked his face with a display of pearly teeth, followed by a stream of his own animated laughter. Again, a Gundam pilot was jerked to his feet off the pristine tile floor. Heero suddenly stared down at his hand, which the American still had a death grip around, causing anything from his knuckle down to turn an asphyxiated pink.   
  
"Ehm."  
  
Duo's sun-freckled face flushed. He snatched his hand back into his long black leather sleeve and hooked it behind his abundant brown-haired head. "Sorry," he said, grinning broadly. 'Just smile Maxwell, that makes everything just the way it used to be, don't it?' he said in his mind. "Just a little excited to see you again."  
  
'Congrats, Max, you've just won the understatement of the year!'  
  
"What are you doing on Earth?" Heero asked, seemingly genuinely interesting.   
  
The anvils taking permanent residence in Duo's stomach committed a collective sigh of relief that "Hn" Heero Yuy had started the conversation. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to stop grinning like a kid in a candy store enough to make intelligent conversation.   
  
"Uh… I was actually… just passing through." Duo's smile grew at the cliché of his words. "What are you doing on Earth? I thought you and went to work with the Preventers."  
  
"I let Wufei have all the glory in the Preventers. I live here," he stated flatly, coining his original stoic look again.  
  
"I could have deduced that," Duo said with a laugh.   
  
"It really is good to see you again," Heero shot back, wasting no time. "I was beginning to think that Shinigami was dead."  
  
"Who, me? Never!" The American triumphantly grinned and punched Heero's shoulder. "How are you doing? Not dead either? You seem to be in one, non-bloody piece to me."  
  
"I'm fine. You?"  
  
"Fine," Duo confirmed. He hoped the conversation wouldn't just circle like that.   
  
"Good. We can talk while we eat then," Heero said briskly, leaning over the blue counter and snatching a clone of his wartime denim jacket from the back of the receptionist chair and hooking it on his shoulders in a fluid motion. "I have something important to talk to you about."  
  
"Like what?" Duo stared at the Japanese man's back as he rapidly snatched a memo pad from behind the counter and scribbled something on it, stared at his stone-intense eyes as they darted across the words he wrote.  
  
He furrowed his eyebrows suddenly and felt something catch dryly in his throat, which he recognized as his throat, scratching to get out in a sudden pang of fear. "Did somebody die?" he asked fearfully.  
  
Heero turned back, paused to analyze Duo's expression, then shook his head in all solemnity. "Everyone is fine; pretty good, even." He ripped the adhesive strip of paper with a sharp, quick flick of his wrist then stuck it to the newspaper over the half-finished crossword puzzles. "You haven't been keeping in touch at all?"  
  
The American bit his lip. "Is there something I should know?"  
  
"…Yes."  
  
A spark of optimism churned in Duo's stomach, but he didn't want to get his hopes up. He didn't want to come across as a giddy schoolgirl either. He would never say that…   
  
"Well, thank you Heero for telling me the news straight out," Duo said sarcastically.   
  
"I'm hungry. I'll tell you once we've eaten," he replied, turning around and his eyes gluing Duo to the spot.  
  
Duo shrugged noncommittally. "Alright then. Where are we going?"   
  
Heero walked up beside him and his eyes darkened slightly.  
  
"You'll freeze." His faceless prussian eyes locked on Duo's light jacket and how it was unzipped halfway down.   
  
"Worry 'bout yourself, okay? I'll be fine. I've been in worse shape for weather like this." The American snorted good-naturedly. "Just lead the way to wherever we're going, Mr. Yuy."  
  
Heero's eyes bore into his for a second, salvaging a bit of his old soldier stubbornness, but decided to let the issue drop. He had to tilt his head up slightly, since Duo had gained an inch over him in the nine years apart.   
  
Damn. This made things a little more awkward.   
  
He could remember, as clearly as water, Duo having to cock his head slightly up to meet his eyes, especially during the ever-rare grim conversations they'd have in the war. His caricature grin and cocky expressions seemed like they never even existed during talks like those, of death, the possibility of it, and the possibility of having say good by.   
  
He'd never leave Heero's eyes during those talks, as stony and calm as his own in their own dark, inauspicious way, and it would scare him for a second. Maybe it was the severity of Duo's discussion the topic that had instilled the uneasiness in him back then, but he could never understand why he was afraid to look Duo back in the eye. He saw death in them… but he had been trained not to fear death—hell, he even embraced several times. But not when it bred in the eyes of another person. Then it was too personal…  
  
"…Hellllooo, Earth to Heero, Earth to Heero Yuy! Konnichiwa!"   
  
Duo's voice, paired with a nice flick of a hand in front of the Japanese man's nose, finally brought him out of the solemnity of his thoughts and back into the world. When Heero jerked back in mild surprise, he smiled again. "Sorry," Duo said. "What are you, a narcoleptic? You just seriously dazed off."   
  
He seemed confused for a second. "Ah… no. Sorry, just thinking."  
  
"Don't worry about it. Like I always say, if you got the brain cells, use them." He hooked his elbow around Heero's. "Now, if we don't get to wherever we're going and you tell me what happened soon, I'll make you skip there."  
  
  
  
Salty air stung at Duo's nose, since he was unaccustomed to ocean air that was so damned cold, and he really wished he'd taken another coat to Seattle with him. Glimpses of sacred silver ocean peered through the cracks were there was no city any more. Rubbing his arms fiercely for warmth as he followed Heero, they turned the corner to be faced with a new onslaught of frozen-car traffic in the streets. They seemed be to be the only people on the street. As Duo slowly admired the city and took in his surroundings with wide, bright violet eyes, he was unusually in tuned to the sound of Heero's feet on the pavement. The Wing pilot seemed not to notice, or to care that Duo lagged behind, circling around and getting a panoramic view, and kept walking ahead. Duo could hear him, or rather the rhythm his feet kept, and when he started to hear him pull away, he focused back on where Heero was going and caught up to him.  
  
"Beautiful ocean today," Duo commented causally, half-dreamily. His gaze wondered off the indifferent profile of his friend and concentrated on the cornflake-frosted cars and buildings.   
  
"It's beautiful every day."  
  
Duo stared at him. "Hm. Lucky you," he said with a tint of jealousy. A wind kicked up and flung his long bangs into his eyes. "How long have you lived here?"  
  
Heero continued to stare up ahead, onto the cold-sunlit sidewalk dashed with snow ahead, but answered. "2 years, 5 months, and 4 days." He shrugged. "Feels like I've been here forever though."  
  
"Is that a bad thing?"  
  
Heero's eyebrows furrowed. "No… no, it isn't… This place makes me forget the colonies and the rest of my life even exists." He sighed. "It's nice."  
  
The American sauntered along side him for a second, his own eyes focused down at his shoes, a bit worn but as reliable as hell, as they moved mechanically over clumps of frost and snow on the sidewalk. He thought for a moment, then kicked at a rock his toe came across. "Hm, I wish I could find a place like that for me. Of course, with my selfish standards, it'd practically have to be Heaven, you know?" The tone in his voice was an ambiguous hybrid of something between sarcasm and nakedness.   
  
Suddenly, Heero's head jerked up like a deer scanning for predators. He paused and his right arm shot out to pull Duo to a halt. The American glanced back and saw a coffee shop wedged in-between two other buildings, one for rent and the other a blank tower of bricks. It was small, granted, but not claustrophobic at all.   
  
"This it?" Duo asked, titling his head.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
For a second, no one moved, the cars froze to the spot coughing smoke, and somewhere a dog barked. They both stood side-by-side staring at the door, hands in pocket and noses turning red from the cold, unaware that they were stalling like dying cars. Suddenly, Heero glanced around then stared at the profile of Duo's face, wistful and clearly fading into thought.  
  
"Well…"  
  
"Huh? —Oh!" Duo jerked to attention, sun-freckled face flushed.  
  
The Japanese man extended his arm toward the door. "You first."  
  
He shook his head, tinged with a half-nervousness about him. Holding out his palms, he contradicted, "No, you go ahead."  
  
"No, you first. I'm paying, aren't I?" Heero's flawless face was planted in its characteristically stubborn and stoic poise.   
  
As Duo fidgeted slightly, once again struck by the pure blueness of his comrade's eyes and the ferocity and feral glint in them, he could feel them zero in on him and follow his every move. It was eerie in a way, too. After nine years of losing touch with Heero, he'd become a flat idol in his mind, just a painting or photograph. Just a thought paired with an infatuation and mental picture. But now that he was here again in real life, the animation he had, however little displayed, was striking. He could shift his weight to the left, and staring into those Prussian blues, he could watch them follow his every, tiny, insignificant move as intently as a dog watches its master. He'd always been like that, even back in the war but he'd taken it for granted… and God, it was intoxicating—Heero interacting with him… like he was the only thing.  
  
But he couldn't have, no, no way would…  
  
"Duo?"  
  
Reality came like a cold slap of water. "Yeah, yeah, I'm going." Flipping his long plait of hair over his back, he took the stairs leading up to the iced coffee shop two at a time, which was oozing warmth from the window on the door, Heero following. He opened the door and another tinny ring sang meekly out above him. The warm air hit him like a heater bursting into flames, waking up molecules that had been dead from cold. He hadn't even noticed he couldn't feel his fingers until he walked in, and then they were burning from cold. As Duo rubbed his fingers together, Heero walked up beside him and paused as well.  
  
"Where are we going to sit?" he asked, between the breaths he used to warm his hands. "Anywhere special?"  
  
"Just my usual." Heero's eyes instinctively scanned the half-empty coffee house, a useless and as-good-as-dead defense mechanism left imprinted in his brain from the war.   
  
"That tells me a lot," Duo grumbled, groggily following Heero as he went to a window booth to the right of the door. Heero tossed his coat into the far side of the booth, while the American stiffly staggered in on the opposite, with his back to the door, and sat down tiredly. He was surprised how much his feet hurt when he stopped walking. Emitting a small grunt of soreness, Duo shed his coat, overcome by the fierce warmth of the coffee shop, both from the mochas and the heating system. In his peripheral vision, he could see Heero grabbing coffees for the both of them and paying with a spill of metal on the counter. He locked downcast violet eyes with the saltshaker, as not to stare at Heero in his uniform alone tail only partially tucked in. Maybe if the little saltshaker started tap-dancing, that might keep his eyes off him…  
  
Heero sat down and clinked two coffee mugs onto the table gently, pushing one toward Duo. He took a drink from his own, testing it, and stared at Duo's skin under the wife beater. "You like mocha, right?"  
  
Duo's face cracked into a smile. "Yeah!" Now that he recognized the smooth, brooding scent, he snagged it up quickly and warmed his fingers on the hot porcelain and leaned forward into the steam. His eyes shot across to Heero. "How did you know? I doubt we ever talked about coffee."  
  
The Japanese man was drinking and staring into the dark cup of strong black coffee. "Quatre told me," he said flatly.  
  
Duo blinked for a second, then turned his gaze upward to think. "I wonder how Quatre found out… Oh, anyway, let's talk." The clink of porcelain and the eager tone in the baritone voice brought Heero's attention up to a heart-shaped face, lips bubbling with unspoken conversation and news from the last nine years. He waited for a stream of anecdotes of what Duo had done the last few years; a stream of self stories, but was caught off guard when he suddenly said, "So Hee-chan, why'd you become a policeman?"  
  
"Hn?" Why a question about him?  
  
"Why'd you join the force? You know… coppers, the black and whites, the good guys." He snorted and his grin broadened. "After being a terrorist for most of your life, this seems like a turn in the opposite direction to me."  
  
Heero dropped his Prussian eyes to his coffee cup, feeling the familiar dark reserve of not anti-socialism, but fear to talk and open up. 'Not now,' he thought forcefully, 'not now… not to Duo. Duo would never hurt me if I opened up, he's my friend…'  
  
"I guess I… wanted to protect people more. Not like we did when we had our Gundams, not with all the wasted and destroyed life that came with, but just to protect their happiness…" He found it amazing that he didn't falter and that he hadn't formulized some short and precise answer, even to himself.  
  
"Wow, that's noble…" Duo answered, eyes focused on Heero completely. Engorged with Heero. "I guess you are a just a nice guy under all that badass pilot."  
  
Blinking through his thick, chocolate-colored bangs, Heero finally lifted his head up from staring at his coffee, but his finger still ringed the circumference of his mug in an uneasy habit. "What do you do now?" Heero asked.  
  
The American gave a faked, nervous laugh. "Heh—Technically, I'm "in-between jobs" right now. The hours were just not working for me." He rubbed the nape of his neck and laughed again, a bit more relaxed this time.  
  
"So you're unemployed."  
  
"Yeah yeah, if you say so. I prefer Labor-Challenged."  
  
"Are you looking for a job in Seattle?" Heero questioned, sipping from his coffee but not shying away from starting at the caricature expressions crossing Duo's face in rapid progression.  
  
"No, not really. The last year or so I've been basically on one endless road trip across America. I'm supposedly from this place, so why not explore it all?" His purple eyes turned slightly wistful. "Hell, I could even come across some remote family member if I were so lucky… But basically, I'm just trekking around and looking for a nice place to settle down, even if it's for a few months. You know, just trying out places." He cocked his arms behind his head and relaxed against the leather booth, looking Heero tiredly in the eye. "Hitchin' a ride most of the time, mind you. I'm trying to save up my severance pay for a down payment."  
  
Two masculine eyebrows furrowed and Heero's eyes seized on his face confusedly. "Severance from what?"  
  
'Oh shit. Shitshitshitshit.' A visible flinch went straight through him, squinting his eyes shut, unable to believe that he'd let his tongue slip over something that important. 'Goddammit…' Regret accented by memories of burning shame and pain rocketed through his stomach and clawed at his back and neck, trying to get back out, trying to see the light after all these years. He didn't want to remember. He'd buried it and now Heero had ripped it out of its grave like it was a rag doll buried under toothpicks.   
  
Heero stared at Duo, taken aback by the uncharacteristically dark look he had adapted all of a sudden. His violet eyes bore straight at him with no life in them, shadowed. Frightened by the almost schizophrenic change in his friend, Heero slowly said, "…Duo?"  
  
The American rubbed at the point between his eyebrows with a sigh and admitted in a gravelly voice, "I was fired from the Sweepers a few years ago… that's what I was severed from…"   
  
He sighed again. Avoiding eye contact with Heero anymore, he dove his mouth tiredly into his coffee cup.   
  
Heero began to screw his face up and lips to form the word, "Why?" but two eyes zeroed in on him dangerously and caught it before it could be said.  
  
"I'd rather not talk about it… Heero." His finger trailed along the edge of the coffee cup "But really, I never wanna talk about it."  
  
Heero just blinked. "Duo? Are you okay?"  
  
Shinigami eyes leapt up from the coffee cup, eyes of purple fire, eyes of death that saw through him again, like they had before, in the war, as if they were talking about the possibility of it being the last mission. Like his eyes had been when he'd confronted him in his dorm room just before he self-destructed Wing in Siberia, face framed by the yellow light of the hallway. "I'll be just fine if we never talk about the Sweepers or anything slightly related to them again, understand?" When Heero said nothing, just trying to comprehend what could have happened to cause for Duo hate the Sweepers so much to loath even hearing the name, the brothers who'd taken him in, fixed his Gundam, given him a warm place to sleep, he stared harder. "Understand?"  
  
It was Heero's turn to sigh. "Completely."  
  
After a few more drinks from his mocha, Duo finally put the mug down and settled back into the leather cushion of the booth, brushing a few bangs back into place and glancing out the window. The sun was arching over the damp blacktop and tiny drifts of snow, almost catching fire. He sat watching it for a few more moments. The sun, an odd morning color of melting orange glared him back in the eye and he turned away when it hurt. Duo glanced back up at Heero, uncomfortably staring at his hands on the table. He huffed into the air.   
  
"Well, now that I've managed to kill the atmosphere with a sledgehammer… where do you live, Hee-chan?" His face had shifted effortlessly back to its bouncing, profusely energetic caricature shape, once again smiling. The sun pouring into the shop turned his face yellow with light.   
  
"Here," Heero said flatly, in a plain, innocent tone and cute, half-confused face. It was clear that he was still shaken up by the seething Duo he'd just seen, and hell, Duo could understand. If he'd been watching himself just a few moments ago, he was sure he'd be scared shitless. Good thing Heero finally regained his composure and gave a sensible answer. "Outside the city a half of a mile."  
  
"Nice house?" Duo asked, scratching at his exposed collarbone. He dipped his mouth in the coffee cup then licked his lips and put it back down.  
  
"Uh…yeah. Nice house," Heero parroted, eyes suddenly prone to wandering away from Duo's face. "It's roomy. But I'm only going to be there for another month or so."  
  
This perked curiosity. "Why are you leaving so soon? And you said so yourself, it's a nice house; why move out?" Duo asked, one eyebrow cocked and gesturing with his elbows on the table. "You're not in trouble with the mafia are you? Because if you are, I know some—"  
  
"I'm moving to Japan," Heero said flatly, retrieving his drink.  
  
Duo's two violet orbs engorged into saucers, and his face split in half with a grin until Heero was sure something had to pop, whether it be his dimpled cheeks or his eyes themselves. "Honto ni? Can I come with?" The American leaned across the table, causing the provided silverware to clatter in the metal basket on the side, and clasped his hands in front of Heero's face. "Please, Hee-chan, tell me I can come with! It'll be just like old times, huh? We can egg the old schools we stayed at!"  
  
Blinking twice, then once more, Heero stared at the begging, pleading purple eyes that seemed unnaturally big and shiny, and smiled. "No, no. I don't think that would be possible…" His gaze dropped off into the streets outside.   
  
Disappointment.   
  
"Why not?" Duo asked, devoid of the immature whine he'd employed in his teens.  
  
Suddenly, Heero's big blue eyes locked on his, a spark of fear and panic, of being put on the spot with a spear and glaring spotlight. His wild dark brown bangs clouded in his face, as he seemed to refer to the floor and door and yellow-lit window for advice, nervously tapping his fingers around his coffee mug. Expectant eyes focused on him from opposite the booth, as he bowed his head down, trying to bore his eyes into a niche in the wooden table so they would stray to Duo's face. With a half-sigh, he answered, "…Because I'm moving there with Relena after we get married on Christmas Day."  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 2 Preview  
  
  
A.C. 205: The misadventures in the coffee shop continue, testosterone is in abundance at the house, and Duo gets second place. Numskull's debut, a green greenroom, and hidden pictures come to the surface…  
  
  



	2. American Happiness Virus

Disclaimer: I'm not going to tell you I own this because if I had enough money to own the G-boys, then I would have a billion British hats. But I only have one, and it's green. So there. Sue me if you want, but you'll just get a gizerly old dog.  
  
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 9x13, 1x2x1  
  
Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.   
  
  
  
Chapter 2 Preview  
  
  
A.C. 205: The misadventures in the coffee shop continue, testosterone is in abundance at the house, and Duo settles for second place. Numskull's debut, a green greenroom, and hidden pictures come to the surface…   
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 2  
"American Happiness Virus"  
  
  
  
  
Anvils did the dance of death in his stomach, smashing the anxious, optimistic butterflies that had been there before. An onslaught against the last well of starry-eyed hope in him sucked it dry as a bone, drained it into this numb oblivion. Duo waited, staring at the stone-braced face with impossibly unreadable eyes that had to be a mirage. He waited to be awaken by the pounding slap of the girl knocking him out of bed and the flare of dangerous heat in his face and the bottomless crying from the other room of the real world to come back; to wake up from this dream.   
  
But he knew it was real… and he had to accept it. Bite the bullet, as they say, rather then take it in the stomach. As his eyes undoubtedly were numbly goring into Heero's, he managed to get out the dumbest thing off his lips he could have possibly imagined himself saying in this type of situation. But it was the only thing that he could say, that he should say.  
  
"I'm really happy for you, Hee-chan," he said flatly. He was strangling his voice to put some believability behind it and still trying to hide the fact he wasn't really happy.   
  
He couldn't breakdown, he couldn't and he wouldn't. He would have to shove those words, those almost damning words back into the recesses of his mind to be dealt with later; otherwise, he could feel the contradicting argument lunging at his vocal chords to get out. Nine years itching to vent.  
  
Heero bowed his head slightly, muttering, "Uh… Thank you, Duo."   
  
His own breed of mulling butterflies, dormant until now, whirled up in the pit of his stomach suddenly like an urge to vomit. The Japanese man quickly washed down the last hint of coffee in his mug to make sure that didn't happen. He recognized the odd feeling as the same one he got from watching Elijah leave returning in little shivers down his spine as he put his mug back down on the table.   
  
With Duo being unusually silent, Heero glared down at the knuckles on his thumb, nearly choked by the quiet. It'd never seemed like that to him before. Silence had always signaled peace and stability before, but now it felt like a ticking bomb inseparable from his body. Suddenly, he blinked, a look of realization washing his face, and he quickly sat up straight and dug into his coat pocket. "Oh!" he said excitedly. "I forgot about this…"  
  
"What?" Genuinely curious, Duo stole his eyes over the sterile white tabletop. He was happy to have a genuine distraction to keep his mind off the engagement plans. "What?"  
  
Over the soft rustle of fabric mingling with the coffee machines whirring and dripping and people murmuring a background white noise, the American could pick out the rustle of paper as Heero turned back to him, smiling half-mischievously. He cocked an eyebrow at Duo's excited expression, holding a crinkled, old-looking white envelope in front of him temptingly. His face lit up with a glowing sadistic pleasure. "Oh, nothing," he said casually, voice flat. If Duo hadn't known him, it would have sounded like he truly didn't care if he got what was in the envelope. Cracking a smile, Heero began to wiggle it between his long fingers.  
  
Duo could now clearly read the writing on the front, spelled out in perfect form: 'To Duo Maxwell,' along with an unfinished address and a return address in the corner, dancing temptingly out in front of him like a secret about to be whispered. The American's eyes widened in a bubbly anticipation, a feeling in his gut blooming where his hopes had just been crushed. Hell, who could say he wasn't resilient?   
  
"For me?" Duo asked, blinking. Suddenly his eyebrows narrowed playfully. "This isn't a conviction notice, is it, Hee-chan?"  
  
"Of course it is." Dropping the malicious tease, he coined his flat monotony again, frustrating Duo that he could never find a happy medium between the two.  
  
"Jesus, you're a tease," Duo huffed, folding his arms on the table.  
  
"Don't whine," Heero said playfully, "I can't stand whiners."  
  
"Whomever in the world said I was whining?" the American said innocently but flatly with a cocked, Billy-Idol lip.  
  
Heero was slightly taken aback by the scholar precision in Duo's grammar choices but passed it over. "Fine. You can have it."  
  
He handed the envelope over with no fight and sat back to watch, like a moviegoer settled in with his popcorn and pop.   
  
The American skipped the part where he would counteract Heero's monotone, flat and lifeless stabs at jokes with biting but still harmless sarcasm, and jumped straight to ripping the shit out of the envelope top and anxiously pulling out the paper inside. While his face lit up with excitement, almost regressed to a child opening a Christmas present, Heero watched silently. He isolated his coffee off to one side, fixated and anticipating on Duo's face with stony eyes.  
  
"Hmm. An eviction notice – nah, I think it's a disguised warrant for my arrest! What, with you being a police man, you know all about my latest bank robberies I suppose," Duo rambled humorously to himself, unfolding the single piece of notebook paper so viciously, so impatiently that he almost ripped the paper inside. "Let'see…"   
  
The American's eyes darted down to the first line like it was a magnet, Heero noticed, and his stomach flipped when he saw the caricature face freeze in amazement, struck like tiny static bolts had shot up his fingers.   
  
From across the table, all Heero could see now, as Duo was reading intently with neck bowed, was his comrade's eyes blinking and moving back and forth and his lips moving slightly, and he felt nervousness come back—after all it was supposed to be a Christmas present. He knew Duo would like it, or else this wasn't the real Duo. Heero bit his bottom lip as his friend lifted his head again.  
  
Violet eyes focused on him, and then blinked, and blinked again, as Duo reached up with his free hand and pinched his cheek, so it turned red where his fingers had been. "Ouch," he mumbled. "Ow… ow…"  
  
Half-curious and half-frightened, Heero asked, "Did you read it all?"  
  
The American numbly nodded. "Uh, y-yeah… I'm just not sure this is real."   
  
"What?"  
  
Not answering and cocking an eyebrow, Duo leaned forward on one elbow, his hand hooked around the back of his neck and playing with his braid, and scrutinized Heero's face playfully.   
  
As carefully as a ghost, Duo said, "I wish Heero had yellow tapioca in his hair."   
  
Duo waited, Heero staring back at him, then glanced around the air above him. When nothing happened and the sounds of the coffee shop continued undisturbed, Duo just snorted and laughed to himself. "Okay, now I know I'm not dreaming at least."  
  
He shoved the envelope, letter on top, across the table back to Heero. "Here. You read it to me, just to make sure I'm not imagining this." Through his surprised, incredulous face a smile managed to worm to the light.  
  
"Out loud?"  
  
The American waved a hand. "Naw, you read to yourself, I'll just keep up with your brain waves," he said mischievously, jabbing at his temple with his finger.  
  
Curling his lips not enough for a smile, but just enough for Duo to recognize it as one, Heero slid it off the edge of the table and propped his elbows up onto the sterile white tabletop. His face glowed with a smothered triumphant spark, like a mother proud of her son constructing a lump of blocks and declaring it the Eiffel Tower. He cleared his throat and began to read the letter he'd written half a year ago but never got the chance to send.  
  
"Dear Duo…"  
  
Heero realized then just how stupid letters could sound out loud. With a flustered, this-sounds-so-stupid look that evoked a chuckle from across the booth, he skipped down past the curt pleasantries, also incredibly awkward-sounding, to the important part. Duo laughed.  
  
"…Relena and I are getting married on Christmas Day and I want you to be my best man. I've already contacted Quatre, Trowa, and Wufei and they've agreed to be the rest of my groomsmen. I know that none of them have been able to get in contact with you and I doubt this letter will reach you soon, but we're willing to wait until we locate you. You're the only one I would tolerate as my best man, with no offense to the others.   
  
"And as a repayment for the war, Relena's family has granted us a large amount of money, which I decided to put towards one big Christmas gift for all five of us. Before the wedding, you, Quatre and Trowa, Wufei and Sally, Noin and Milliardo, Catherine, Relena, and I will be go to twelve different spots around Earth as a Christmas present…"   
  
Heero's voice dropped off into the background morning song of coffee grinding and the guttural laughter of the old man behind the counter and soft-spoken sweet nothing conversations between old friends and lovers as he glanced up to Duo's face and folded the letter back up quietly. His eyes moved across his comrade's features, gauging the tiny, camouflaged mannerisms that signaled Duo's emotions, besides the loud, boisterous ones that were obvious.   
  
From rooming with him multiple times at various schools under various aliases, he'd learned to read Duo just like he'd learned to read him. And apparently, his knowledge hadn't faded. With purple eyes tracing him back, Duo's numbed face finally burst into an ecstatic smile as the words settled in with pictures of the vacation of a lifetime, eyes lighting up.   
  
"Everybody?" he asked, voice wavering dangerously loud in the peace of the coffee shop. "No way! This is too good to be true!"  
  
Heero curled his lips slightly again, the ghost of a smile. "Then I'm lying, I guess."  
  
The American's eyes were glittering saucers, more animated and excited than if he'd just taken down ten fleets of Leo's and Taurus single-handedly. "Jesus, I can't believe this… Where are we going?" His hands clenched around the edge of the tabletop to prevent him from jumping up in the booth and skyrocketing through the ceiling.   
  
"Duo…"  
  
"Where? Where? Where?"  
  
"It's a secret." Heero's face glowed back, sucked into the infectious blast of happiness that Duo gave off. "You can't open your Christmas present on the ninth, Duo. You'll have to wait."  
  
Suddenly, the sun-freckled American face was six inches from his, with an expression of a man near nirvana.  
  
"So, when do we go?!" Duo asked breathlessly, slanted over the table again with an insatiable, indestructible grin. His eyes darted back and forth, pursing Heero's, which shied off to the side.  
  
"Um—"  
  
"Soon? It'd better be soon! And I swear, if it's more than a week from now, I'm gonna kill you, Heero Yuy—"  
  
"It'll be soon, calm down!" Heero said, grounding the exploding bombshell that was Duo Maxwell at the moment by grabbing his arm and trying to ground him to the booth. His face couldn't help but be infected with the smile snapping Duo's face into two pleasant halves. It was especially annoying when you were trying to be firm with someone, with this cock-eyed smile taking your face prisoner. "Duo—"  
  
The American suddenly sat down, his smile swallowed in half-confused, half-unsure stare that sank into his face for a few seconds. "Wait a minute," he said bluntly, his face contorted into an expression that was indefinitely alien for Heero to ever see. "Just how long have you been waiting to find me?"  
  
Heero shifted in his seat, knowing that the American had him backed into a corner somewhat. "…Um, a year?"  
  
"A whole fu—" Duo began to exclaim loudly, but caught himself quickly to save his manners in front of the inhabitants of the coffee shop and leaned closer to Heero instead, his voice an impatient whisper.   
  
"A whole year! Jesus, Heero—I don't know what to say: that you're insane or that you need to get your priorities straightened out! You don't need to go ruining your marriage over me!"   
  
Big violet eyes drove the incredulity like a hammer into him, strangely protective and even maternal toward him. Sure, Duo'd worried about him before, but never like a parent encouraging a kid to strike out on his own; never so zealously. It was strange, but Heero brushed it off and thought up an answer that would hopefully calm him down.   
  
"It's worth the celebration just finding you, Duo. You're harder to find than Houdini when you don't want to be found," Heero commented, meeting his eyes with stoic blue ones. "You know that."  
  
"Well, thank you," Duo said, a smile touching his face again, "but still… That's a hell of a long time to postpone your wedding for a brash little American like me! Forgive me, but you've never done anything like this for me in the war."  
  
Taking on a darkened, confused look, Heero said, blinking as he slightly shook his head, "Why shouldn't I? You've been my only real best friend, Duo. It's the least I could do to thank you."  
  
Duo's eyes locked on him, half-simmering with surprise and honor, but quickly focused on the window.  
  
The quiet of the morning, aside from the faint memory of cars guttering up the streets, was knifed by the wail of a siren down the street. Being hyper-tuned to noises and disturbances by the lightning nerves that were needed to live through a war like the A.C. war, they both turned their heads to zero in on the noise. Heero was accustomed to ambulances streaking by, chasing off cars like a draft horse stomping past mice, but somehow he was drawn to watch it as it roared down the empty side of the street. It disappeared over a hill, roaring toward the outskirts and the suburbs. The wail of imminent injury or death faded off, provoking some uncomfortable remembrances from war with it.  
  
Duo turned his head back to Heero, the angular sunlight bathing his face and causing him to squint. There was flippant causality to his expression. He was just as accustomed to the appearance and disappearance of an ambulance as he was. "Hm. Some unlucky guy must have gotten it," Duo said, his humor faint and unnaturally weak. Heero knew he never liked to joke about the sick and injured, unless it was him, but Duo didn't like to have very many publicly somber moments either.   
  
"Yeah," Heero agreed listlessly, eyes still watching where the ambulance had disappeared over the ridge. Something didn't feel right, like part of him had been tied to the back bumper of the ambulance and now strained to follow.  
  
"You okay?" Duo's voice asked while he still stared uncertainly.  
  
Heero flickered his eyes back once, and then jerked his head from the glare of the sunny window. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said flatly. "Just had a… weird feeling, that's all."  
  
"Do these… 'weird feelings' as you put it… bother you Heero?" the American razzed playfully in a mock scholar voice, leaning back and cocking his elbows up in the air with hands laced behind his head. "Because, you know, I think I'd make a pretty decent shrink. People say I'm a good listener, when I'm not deafening the person with the buzzing I pass off as talking."  
  
Heero stared for a moment, eyes still as stoic as a pile of frozen rocks, then suddenly cracked. He smiled wider than Duo had ever seen, that was for sure, and started laughing. Duo's face cracked as well, mostly out of welcome surprise that Heero had actually laughed at one of his lame-as-a-dead-cow jokes, and laughed as well. The Japanese man's face was wonderfully younger when he laughed, chasing off the stress that was obvious in his face. As the laughter died down, Duo snorting into his coffee cup as he tried to calm himself down, Heero suddenly heard his phone ring, choked by the fabric of his coat pocket but still audible.  
  
While rubbing off a ring of coffee residue off his lip, Duo leaned forward curiously. "What's that?"  
  
"My phone," was the monotone answer. "My work phone. They must be calling me back or something, though I don't think there'll ever be an emergency in reception…"  
  
Duo smirked. The other pilot shuffled through his discarded coat, jerking his cell phone out of his pocket, which emitted a slightly annoying briiing as Heero flipped it open quickly.  
  
"Hello?" As he began to listen to whoever was on the line, his face paled considerably. Duo suddenly dropped his causal expression and replaced it with a concerned one.  
  
"Wait, wait! Who?" Heero said angrily. "Slow down, John, I can barely understand you."   
  
Duo leaned forward, furrowing his eyebrows as if it would help him read Heero's thoughts, and rested his elbows on the table while the steam from his mocha slid up the side of his face.  
  
"…Again? Is she okay?"  
  
Duo began to vaguely wonder if Relena had gotten it, then realized that the same person the ambulance had been for was probably the same Heero was stressing over now. It'd be some sort of sweet cruel irony if something had happened to his comrade's fiancé… but not one Duo felt he'd have the heart to take advantage of. He'd never be able to stop thinking of himself as a sleazy bastard if he did something like that… But still, the image that was probably now burned into his retinas of Relena's face beaming beside Heero's, with a lace halo ringing around them, made something in his blood boil and churn.   
  
"...Okay, I'm coming." Heero's eyes suddenly locked on Duo's face for a moment, considering, then dropped to focus on nothing. His teeth locked over his bottom lip in a death grip. "Yeah, it's no big deal… I'm at Sixteenth and Galleon, I can be there in a few minutes." His comrade was curiously watching him as he sighed, closing his stressed prussian eyes. "Yeah, bye."  
  
Before he could hang up, Duo was pressing his concern upon him.   
  
"What happened?" By the genuine glint in his odd purple eyes, Heero knew it wasn't just some brown-nosing impulse; he was worried. Duo was hunched over the table, staring as absorbedly as if he was waiting for news from the delivery room.  
  
"April. My co-worker." Heero's head of tangled brown hair just shook helplessly. "She had another vertigo attack and fell down the stairs. Two flights." The Japanese man's eyes locked on his in a silent apology, with a disappointed dark cast. "I've gotta go… She'll kill me if I don't go and check on her; it'd ruin my visiting streak."  
  
"This happens all the time?" Duo asked, completely ignoring his cooling coffee.  
  
"Not all the time, but usually every few months. We've been trying to get her to see a doctor, but she's as hot-headed as hell when it comes to the poking and prodding and needles of doctors."  
  
The American lopsidedly blew a bang out of his face. "Kinda like you, then?"  
  
The comment suddenly brought back the hazy memory of Duo crouched down beside him, looking annoyed as he searched for his knife to cut him loose in the hospital, just a day or so after they'd just met. Heero smiled at the sun-lit face across the booth from him, and Duo smiled back on impulse. He held his coat under the table, still regretful that they hadn't even had a decent-length conversation. After all, this was Duo Maxwell he was talking to; a practical machine when it came to tête-à-tête.  
  
"Hey, go on!" his comrade prodded happily. "We can always talk later. I promise I'm not skipping town or anything."  
  
Heero rubbed his nose and glanced around the yellow-milky cast in the coffee shop, noticing that most of the young couples that had orchestrated the background noise had disappeared. His eyes bounced from the mirror behind the counter, to an empty, red-leather backed chair, and finally came to a rest on the door behind Duo's head. "Yeah," he said unfocusedly, "I guess." He began to rise from the booth, swinging his denim jacket around his shoulders.   
  
"Wait!" Duo said. "What am I gonna to do? No offense, but you've witnessed how long my attention span can get. I don't want to be stuck in coffee shop all morning and I'm not sure I won't go wondering off."  
  
The stoic eyes were back on him again, a place Duo felt they belonged. "You can go to the house." A slight of a smile touched Heero's flat face as he imagined what his friend's reaction would be. "Quatre and Trowa are there. You've got a lot to catch up on with them, to say the least. They're engaged now."  
  
"Really?" Duo asked excitedly.   
  
Heero just nodded, adjusting his jacket.  
  
An insane and mischievous smile cracked across Duo's face. "Trowa, that sly bastard—he proposed! I'm going up there and ask him why the hell he didn't tell me the second after! I deserve to know things like this!"   
  
Heero smirked at the comment, although the butterflies in his stomach began to nervously flutter off the ground. He got his jacket comfortable around his shoulders and flipped out the collar habitually. He rummaged quickly through his pant pockets and tossed a five onto the table top, along with any change that had gotten caught in his fingers. Meanwhile, the braided pilot practically threw the rest of his coffee down his throat and shoved the emptied cup towards Heero's with a minute clink. He stood up as well and threw on his jacket, mumbling, "Man, people are getting married left and right," to himself.  
  
"What about you?" Heero asked abruptly.  
  
Duo cocked one eyebrow, laying one flat over his other eye with a confused smile. "Are you really asking if I'm married?" he asked, unsure.  
  
Adopting the frazzled, what-did-I-do look frequent of children after their parents joke about something beyond their knowledge, Heero numbly nodded. "Yeah… no girlfriend or fiancé?"  
  
Duo laughed, and then flipped his tail of hair out from his high collar. "No," he replied truthfully, "nobody's got their claws in me just yet."  
  
At least no one who knows they do, he added as a bittersweet afterthought.  
  
"You like being a bachelor?" the Japanese man asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.   
  
"Sure," Duo said hurriedly. "Where's your house? You'd better get going to see your friend, you know." A jerk of his thumb toward the door accented it.  
  
Heero whipped out a scrap piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it and shook out the complementary pieces of lint that came with. He patted down his breast pocket, and then brushed over his back jeans pocket; the pen he was looking for had apparently suddenly got up and run away. Under his breath, he swore at the inconvenience.   
  
"Got a pen?" he asked, flickering blue eyes upward at his lanky friend. Duo muttered to himself, consulting where it might be hidden, and rummaged around in his inside coat pocket until he pulled out a stubby pencil for a substitute. "Thanks," Heero said as he put the piece of paper against his thigh and began to write on it, bent over slightly.   
  
Duo feigned curiosity at what he was writing so that he could lean down slightly as well and that way he wouldn't get the impulse to eye up Heero when he wasn't looking. I could really use another tap-dancing salt shaker right now, he commented to himself as some heat ran to his face. The Japanese man finished the address with a flick of the pencil and stood up, brushing his bangs back into place, even though they were still as disheveled as ever. He handed the paper to Duo.  
  
"It's kinda a long way from here, but nothing that you couldn't handle. It's just off of a new road outside the city, so there won't be any signs up yet."  
  
"Okay," Duo confirmed to himself, glancing over the gist of the address, which was really more a list of directions. Heero stepped forward and pointed out the street he spoke of on the paper.   
  
"When you get here, it's the first gate on the left, across from the only pine tree on the street. I doubt Trowa and Quatre will unlock it for you, so you'll have to slip through the bushes on the left side and cross the stream. You'll have to get through the fence, too; you can climb right over it on the tree by the third post."   
  
With a laugh, Duo asked, "Do you live in a rat maze?"  
  
"It just looks like one. It's just a short walk up the hill to the house after that."  
  
As the American stashed the note in his pocket, he cocked his head and paused. "Why won't Quat and Trowa let me in?" he asked with a suggestive smirk.  
  
A prussian glare shot down the innuendo Duo managed to stir up. "They're sleeping in, Duo. They do everyday."  
  
"Oh, you watch them, do you?"  
  
Heero's glare faltered with a snort. The infectious smile spreading, he turned slightly and shook his head, in amused frustration. "Duo..."  
  
  
  
  
The molten candy-yellow-orange sun had risen above the buildings across the street and now danced through the taller presences of corporation buildings and lit their metal sides orange. It edged off into the streets and turned the cars into glowing presences themselves. Wisps of industrial smoke and weak clouds dotted the sky above, and the distant blue of the sky sucked the warmth generated by the morning clouds back out into space. It suddenly was too cold for even Duo to tolerate mildly as he opened the door of the coffee shop and stepped out into a smack of cold, compliment of Mother Nature. He stuffed his hands into his pocket and swung the sides of his coat tight around him. Heero was a step behind him as they descended the stairs, and then they stood opposite each other at the bottom, each about to head in their own direction.   
  
Duo noticed how easily Heero's nose turned pink from the cold, but stopped himself from giggling and spoke instead. "So, Hee-chan, are you coming to house after you go see April?" A sudden and short-lived wind whipped through the narrow street and brought an extra razor edge to the cold.  
  
"Yeah," he stated flatly. "I'll have to check in at the station and tell them I'm taking my vacation, then I'll come up. I've got a lot of days saved up."  
  
"From waiting for me," Duo said, "right?"  
  
"Yeah, and the fact I never take vacations helps."  
  
Cracking a white smile in the stunning, intense orange and yellow light, Duo braved one arm out of his coat and gave his friend a mock punch in the arm. "And I bet you never get sick, you lucky bastard."  
  
Shifting his coat to generate some warmth as well, Heero began to shift backward, his internal clock gnawing at him to get moving. As much as he regretted separating, he convinced himself with the thought that he'd have plenty of time to catch up with his best friend. More cold shot up from the snow-dashed sidewalk, invading his ears and nose and corners of his eyes as he spoke again.   
  
"I'll have to contact Relena, too, and tell her we've finally found you. She's out at a conference in India; they never seem to stop bickering with Pakistan. She won't finish for two more days at least. But if the rioters act up again, she'll definitely be delayed." He shrugged. "I'm sure nothing serious will happen."  
  
Duo didn't know how to react to the last statement. If he plastered some conjured sympathetic smile onto his face and strangled the believability into a fake well wishing, Heero would know he wasn't sincere. It wasn't that he was a heartless brat who wished Relena would be caught in the riots, he just felt that any time he could be alone with his friends, his brothers, was perfect.   
  
They were indefinitely their own group, a breed of humanity that hopefully wouldn't ever have to come about again, and Duo had always had this unexplainable sense that anyone whose name wasn't Heero, Trowa, Quatre, and Wufei were outsiders who could threaten their peace. And damn it, they deserved every second of piece they had fought for. But he still didn't want harm to come to Relena seriously. He wasn't a heartless bastard despite all the annoyed feelings he harbored for her.  
  
"I hope she makes it out okay," Duo said.  
  
"Don't worry about her. She'll be fine." Heero shrugged again. "If those self-defense classes were for absolutely nothing, then I'd start to worry about her."   
  
Duo laughed. "Confident, aren't we?" He plucked the sheet of paper out from inside his coat pocket, then jabbed it at his comrade. "You'd better get going. I'd be as pissed as hell if my friends never came to see me in the hospital," he said humorously.  
  
"It sounds more like your eager to get rid of me," Heero said flatly, another one of his stoic stabs at a joke that Duo found odd and amusing anyway. "I'm hurt."  
  
The American shivered in his coat and winked, as he began to turn away. "No, it's not that…I've gotta go surprise Quatre and Trowa before they wake up," he said with a smile.  
  
"Alright," the Japanese man said, turning as well. "Tell them I say good morning."  
  
"'Kay. Bye!" Duo called back, jauntily stepping backwards and watching for a spell as Heero began to walk off into the frosty air and steam of the city. When he finally disappeared around the corner, Duo turned fully around and began to plod mechanically along the iced street.   
  
He flipped his braid onto his back, stiff from the cold, and then unfolded the crinkled scrap of paper, with a glowing smile on his face. Running through his mind were images of how nervous Trowa must have been when he proposed, the poor guy. More interesting, though, were the images of just how Quat must have reacted.  
  
Duo stepped off the sidewalk into the iced street and flagged down the nearest taxi and quickly hopped inside, welcoming the oozing warmth that came with. He sat down and snapped the door shut. Before the cab driver could say anything, Duo was already up near his head, pointing out the directions on the scrap paper. The driver, face pinched red from the cold, nodded genially with understanding and clapped his mittens together after staring the meter. The American, watching the numbers begin to revolve methodically, relaxed in the seat and stared out the golden lit window as the car jerked into motion.  
  
  
  
  
A spray of wet slush and smoky white car exhaust spilled out around Duo's feet as he slammed the cab door shut and waved a genial goodbye to the witty Irish man who had been driving and given him the best restaurants on the back of Heero's directions. He'd even pointed out directions to one of his favorite swimming holes just outside Seattle, the Gorge. He could see the man's hand waving sayonara as well, through the frost on the window. The cab jerked over the uneven road and disappeared down the skeleton-wooded incline back to the suburbs and towards the city.   
  
Duo, breath freezing on his face as the wind blew it back at him, watched for a moment, then folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. Before him lay another large hill, or rather, a wooded rock face, hidden by a thick coat of furry spruces and witch-like bare-boned oaks and elms. There were hints of a few scattered houses poking through the coat of trees like gophers.  
  
A quick glance around revealed the small, insignificant-looking pine tree Heero had mention, sandwiched between the gloomy bare trees on the side of the road. The American, overwhelmed by the bitter cold, shivered as he dashed across the abandoned street toward the shadowed gate that must be his comrade's. Large Norwegian spruces threw their dark, sagging arms of woe out to shelter the metal gate and tarred driveway past it, looking like depressed old men towering over him with snow as their hair.  
  
Duo remembered Heero's instructions and quickly veered off toward the frozen stream to the side, in a deep, slush-compacted ditch. The remnants of long jagged bushes shot up through the snow and slashed at his clothes, but snapped as he ripped them off of himself. The slush began to suck at Duo's feet as he trudged down the slick hill toward the rocks that jutted out of the iced-over stream.   
  
The ice itself looked solid enough, but he'd rather take the harder way than have ice cubes for feet. The American steadied his boot on the first frozen stone, testing it for danger, then quickly shifted his weight and jumped across the jaunty rock path to the other side as fast as he could, laughing as he made it across.  
  
He glanced behind him and grinned at the fact he had so much dumb luck and agility at his disposal. Duo climbed over the other side of the ditch and ducked through the small thicket of Norwegian spruce offspring while thick mint scent ran rampant through his senses. He was so charmed by the smell that he barely felt his face pinching pink from the cold. Apparently, the city kept itself very well incubated and the difference out here in temperature, on an isolated hill in the outlying suburbs exposed to the full fury of winter, was bone rattling. The American wrapped his coat tighter around his body and stomped through the growing snow, the iced green fence approaching.   
  
He quickly found the small tree by the third post, which, true to Heero's word, it coiled over the top of the rail like a snake's tongue. Pushing aside the cranky bushes that clawed at his pants, Duo put his foot on the sloped trunk and gripped the random branches to pull him up and over the fence. Jumping off quickly so that his weight wouldn't snap the brittle-looking branch, he stood up and brushed the snow off his knees.   
  
Now that he was over the obstacles, he realized with a elated shock to his heart that there was nothing but a slushy stretch of driveway separating him from his best friends, who had become fuzzy warm memories lazing in the back of his mind. The American ducked through the line of towering, darkly shadowed, almost depressing trees overhead onto the sheltered driveway.   
  
Down the middle of the blacktop salt had carved away a path of clean tar that Duo leapt onto furiously and began to sprint up the curving driveway, while his face was an unconquerable grin. Above him the specter-like presences of the Norwegian spruces began to thin so that dashes of sky peeked through, stared down at the strange visitor. Duo began to slow in awe when the curve lessened and opened up to a small flat space carved into the hill, bristled by trees on all sides but the front.  
  
He stopped, dead in his tracks, taken aback. His eyes scanned the front of the house, about thirty feet from him, and his warm anxious breath clouded on his face as he paused there for a moment.  
  
Barbie would have been disappointed, Duo mused to himself, eyeing the house curiously. Images of mansions with wealth and extravagance untold, complete with belly dancers, had been haunting the back of his mind. After all, Peacecraft money was involved, no doubt with an infinitely generous offer from the Winner family as well. He had imagined a marbled house of the gods even too luxurious for Zeus to stomach, but instead got a smack in the face when he was presented with a humble blue Lego piece of a home, hiding in the toes of the trees surrounding it.  
  
The front of the house was flat save for the slanted dark gray porch over the door and very narrow. The thick lining of trees prevented Duo from seeing how far back it extended though. A misty cadet blue and framed with dark blue shutters and a large vista window on the right, it looked like a ocean home plucked off the beach and stashed up in the mountains in total secrecy. The dark, white-spotted roof bluntly slanted off at either side with pine boughs poking at it, some trimmed, some not. There was a garage connected to the far right side, slightly sunken back into the arms of the pines, with another frosted vista window where the door would have been. Above that window was a pair of miniature French doors, more suited to be a window than an exit, sealed shut by jagged ice. The snow-mounded cars huddled just to the side of it, sheltered by a tarp and two poles slanting off the garage roof. Piles of musty, soggy-looking logs were heaped in front of the two cars and squirrels would occasionally chatter from inside them. The American paused, taking in the genial charm of the place, and then was jerked back to reality by a flicker of movement in the front door window.   
  
Cold nipping fiercely at his heels, the boy ran to the door. He glanced through the window while rubbing his hands for warmth, eyes greeted by muddled grayness of shadow inside, and suddenly a blur of muddy brown and black flung itself at the glass, and then plummeted to the floor.   
  
Duo flinched in surprise, then leaned towards the glass to hear the yips of a tiny border terrier furiously announcing there was someone at the door. The American tried the knob; it slipped open without hesitation. As soon as he got the door open, there was three pounds of ecstatic puppy on him.   
  
Warm, wet dog tongue assaulted his face, and Duo had to grab the small puppy and hold him up before he slid back down his jacket because of gravity. The American curiously held the puppy up and read the inscription on its tiny pink collar. 'Numskull.' He laughed and held the wiggling ball of life out in front of him, eliciting a whine from the matted brown face and liquid black eyes. It was a tiny dog, probably only six or seven months old, with fragile-looking dynamic legs that scratched at his jacket furiously.  
  
While Duo looked over Numskull, two tiny, mud-freckled paws clawed out for human affection and the dog's body quivered with unbridled excitement. This was a new scent, a new human, something to be explored and analyzed, like a leaf scurrying across the yard with the wind or an alien toy on the floor.   
  
The American laughed as the pink tongue reached out for his nose, steam rising from the tiny flaring nostrils, and hooked the wiggling Toto-look-alike under his arm and hurried inside into the warmth of a running heater. He shut the door behind him and let the wiggling bunch of puppy down onto the floor, where it scampered excitedly around his feet. He stopped and looked up.  
  
The first thought that came to mind was it was a damn nice house.  
  
The entrance hall was small and narrow, with a door on either side, one cracked open to reveal a clean, pristine white bathroom and the other bristling with dark coats and random shoes heaped in the corner. The floors were all an amber-colored wood, polished and cold under Duo's feet as he stared at the rest of the house while quickly kicking off his shoes.   
  
The entrance hall dropped off into an airy, high ceilinged den that included most of the space in the entire house. The center of the den dropped down a foot into a 10-foot lounging space complete with two old red velvet couches that looked like they could swallow a human whole, dark shag carpet, and a dog bed in the corner. To the right of Duo, as he trotted out onto the den, was an open arched path to a sterile, industrial kitchen with a l-shaped counter separate from the wall and a generous open space for a dining table that ended at a large frosted vista window.   
  
To the left, there were two more doors and a sunlit hallway clinging to the wall that ducked past the flight of stairs protruding out into the den area. Just to the right of the stairs was a flat, dark green wall with a single door met by a dropped pair of stairs. The far right wall, past the kitchen, was covered with various paintings, some obscure swirls of dark colors, some optimistic-looking glows of peach and yellow and red that must have been people. There was another open door way that led to a darkened room filled with different black presences that Duo couldn't quite make out, but guessed must be entertainment centers and stereos or something.   
  
The second floor was basically a thin, narrow strip of balcony overlooking the den, curling around the wall. It reminded him of those old elevated trainsets he'd seen once in antique show, whirring over his head and weaving around near the ceiling. There were four more doors upstairs, one tucked away where the house dipped back. Duo flipped his bangs back from his eyes, violet eyes scanning over everything a few more times. This odd feeling like overwhelmed him… A feeling like he was intruding on something sacred, something wonderful that he'd been dead and oblivious to.  
  
He felt like he had missed out on something.  
  
A protesting bark from Numskull broke him back into reality. It raced around his heels, anxious for attention, and would occasionally claw at his pant leg.   
  
Duo leaned over with a smile and obliged the little bundle of tangled brown fur with a quick backrub before straightening out and glancing around for any sight of his engaged friends. The den was obviously empty and the sound of the dog barking hadn't woken anybody up… so where would they be? The entire dim cast of the house was as still as stone and even the shadows were sleepily oblivious to the fact it was morning and they should be gone. He furrowed his eyebrows and scratched his head aimlessly, eyes glancing over the deep-colored furniture and around the high walls.   
  
It was time to go hunting for lovebirds.   
  
  
  
Duo was mentally smacking himself when he stumbled into the sun-lit music room hidden behind the staircase. Where else would they have been?  
  
He'd investigated the upstairs thoroughly, sneaking into all the darkened bedrooms and found them as lifeless as if they had no oxygen in them. Some of them, Duo suspected, had rarely seen a human body in them for years. The dust that had flown up from the carpet as the door swung open had threatened to choke him to death. He'd confusedly trotted back down the stairs afterward with his hand trying to scratch a spark of inspiration into his brain and searched the downstairs level just as completely, but he saw no sign that Quatre and Trowa even lived here… Of course, he'd forgotten about the little lane of golden morning sunlight streaming out from the sheltered side of the stairs that led to the music room.   
  
Violet eyes settled on his subjects, still unhurriedly asleep in a small explosion of quilts, and then Duo smirked and silently dashed out and around the corner back into the den with his braid rhythmically slapping his back.   
  
His socks only made tiny thuds as he ran towards the pristine white bathroom in the entryway. As quickly as he could, he swung the heavy mahogany door open, snatched the small glint of gold and numbers off the sink, and tore out of the bathroom again, like a criminal escaping with crown jewels. As he padded back towards the music room, a maniac smile plastered firmly on his face, he cranked the dial on the back of old-fashioned, gold-accented alarm clock he'd retrieved so it was set to go off in precisely one minute. His face began to ache from the steadily widening smile he had.   
  
As he turned the corner back into the rosin-scented music room and warm sunlight splayed out on his face, he wished he had a camera with him. Duo paused in the doorway and surveyed the room briefly.   
  
It was a rectangular room about twenty feet across and six feet deep, with deep mahogany wood floors and lush wine-colored walls. There was a piano hidden away the in the corner with a familiar violin and flute laid on it, and a pile of old-looking books thrown haphazardly beneath it. The source of light was a large vista window confronting the thick green masses of pine trees behind the house, with the sun rising and reflecting off the large polished boulders scattered nearby and landing on Quatre and Trowa, who were sleeping smack dab in the middle of the mostly empty room. All that was visible above the bundle of cotton and flannel blankets was a flash of gingery hair and the top of the Arab's pale blonde head, which was engulfed by pillow.  
  
Duo trotted close enough to the sleeping pair that when he strained to listen, he heard Trowa mumbling in his sleep and shifting in time with the telltale groans Duo's weight on the floorboards made. The American brushed his braid quickly onto his back as he bent over, so that it wouldn't brush Quatre's head, as he strategically positioned the round golden alarm clock. It sat innocently a few inches from the fluffy pillow and both Trowa's and Quatre ears.  
  
Restraining a mischievous laugh with a hand over his mouth, Duo stealthily sat down cross-legged on the floor behind the alarm clock. His lips spread in a bubbly, expecting grin while he imagined their reactions. His smile grew as the clock suddenly wobbled and shrilled a high-pitched wake-up call and he nearly couldn't mask his laughter when alarm clock started furiously wiggling across the floor.   
  
Quatre mumbled loudly into the pillow something that sounded like "doughnut fish" and lifted his drowsy head out of his pillow, eyes still squinted shut, while Trowa curled up sleepily and hid further under the blankets. The blonde clumsily reached out, body heavy from sleep, and fumbled around blindly with his fingers for the alarm, which quite often wiggled just out of his grasp. Gritting his teeth in displeasure, Quatre finally slammed his hand down on the alarm and silenced it. For a moment he sat propped up on his elbows, one of Heero's old green tank tops hanging loose around his moderate frame, and blinked slowly behind his closed eyelids. He unceremoniously flopped back down onto the makeshift bed and succumbed to sleep again. This time he buried his face in the tangled mop of Trowa's hair and sleepily smacked his lips, mumbling once again something that sounded awfully like a sort of pastry marine creature.   
  
Suddenly, from underneath the covers, Trowa shifted and let the blonde's head roll off the top of his and blinked open drowsy green eyes, barely conscious. "Quatre…" he mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep.   
  
Quatre just buried his face into the pillow and let his body relax for sleep again and drew closer to Trowa's body heat. "…What?" he murmured in response.  
  
"…You didn't set the alarm, did you?"  
  
Duo's stomach was aching he was shaking from silent laugher so hard. His fingers barely had the strength to stay clamped over his mouth, which could give the secret away and ruin the entire prank. The American began to tip backwards as he struggled to stay quiet. Suddenly, Trowa's head turned, eyes still resisting the vivid golden light streaming in from the left, and his gaze confusedly settled on the laughing person sitting two feet from him.  
  
He cocked his head to one side, like a curious puppy baffled by something. A puppy with ginger hair sticking out at all angles. "Duo?" he said increduously.  
  
Quatre's head flew up at that, his pale hair lopped over onto one side. "Mmnhha?" he asked.  
  
"Gotcha!"  
  
  
  
  
  
The sterile stretch of gleaming silver accents and dull white sheets and flat gray tiles stretched for miles out in front of Heero, none of it seeming to lead to anywhere familiar. Glaring industrial lights passed over him in quick succession, as he strode leisurely down the hall, hoping to stumble across the door soon. His eyes numbly rolled across the floor tiles that gleamed from the harsh light above and that glare shimmered and led ahead of him wherever he went.   
  
He wasn't surprised that the doctors had rejected him from April's room, with her being incredibly and unexpectedly delusional and impulsive with her concussion. They didn't want to risk her doing something stupid while Heero was in her company, like try to get out of bed or accidentally roll out. But at least they had told her that he was glad to see she was going to be fine and back to work in a few days—it got him out of hot water. There was no way she could come to work and razz on him for not coming to see her when she was injured tomorrow morning…  
  
Wait. He wasn't going to work tomorrow… He'd found Duo; that meant the wedding could proceed and his vacation began. The resurfacing stresses of preparing a wedding, especially for a bride and groom who were both so infamous and eminent as the Peacecraft daughter and the Gundam pilot who had saved the Earth, were dulled by the fact that he'd have his best friend there to help him cope and probably take a lot of the load off his shoulders.   
  
A weak smile crossed his face as he pictured what hell it would be to get Duo fitted for a tuxedo, remembering how time-consuming and taxing and awkward the other men's fittings had been, with Relena nitpicking over the smallest details and Sally purposefully ribbing and distracting them during it all. His smile grew faintly, fed by images of the memory of the peace celebration Quatre had held after the war had ended.  
  
It was one of the rare times Duo Maxwell had ever remitted to wearing a 'monkey suit' and even then, Heero could remember, while being reclusive in the background of the party and watching from a far off corner, how the American had finally given up all patience with his tie and ripped it off and used it as a tool to rag on Hilde as she tried her best to dance and to slap anyone who came near the cookie plate. Heero remembered it warmly, but his memory staled when he remembered the aching cold isolation he'd felt once he'd lost sight of the American's larking about and realized he was alone.   
  
It'd been a lonely night after that, since apparently all the pilots had left early and without even his keen senses noticing. He didn't know why he had lingered so long after most had left… but he'd been looking for something… something brown…  
  
Suddenly, Heero's head jerked up to attention, as he spotted a telephone across the hall. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, sauntering across the tiles over to it, fishing out change as he lifted the receiver off the hook. He mechanically inserted his money and lingered his fingers over the keyboard, already eyeing up the needed numbers.   
  
Before he began to dial for the American Embassy in India, he brought up the image of Duo stuffing a sacred chocolate chip cookie into his mouth, and then defending the rest of his spoils playfully by slapping Noin's hand with his tie. He smiled, then dialed the number, the expression still glued to his face. As the monotone, automated ring came into the receiver, Heero's mind wandered aimlessly back to the house, to the room he'd reserved for Duo and if he'd like it. Wistfully, he toured it again in his mind… and realized that he'd left all his pictures… all his paintings up in the abandoned greenhouse above Duo's room in the remodeled garage. All his insecurites put on paper for anyone to see... Heero's stomach dropped in fear.  
  
And Relena picked up.  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 3 Preview  
  
A.C. 205: Accommodations aren't lacking, Heero hurries to hide his artistic side and his most sacred painting, and first destination on the vacation is revealed... and Duo's prank call to Wufei!  
  
[To 16 reviews to continue please!]  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Try Not To Breathe

Disclaimer: It'd be a very wonderful day in the neighborhood if I even slightly, partially knew a guy who had once had coffee with someone's cousin who's ex-girlfriend owned stocks managed by the broker who's brother who owned part of Gundam Wing... or one of Quatre's shoelaces.   
  
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 1+2, 9x13, 1x2x1  
  
Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.   
  
  
  
  
Chapter 3 Preview  
  
A.C. 205: Accommodations aren't lacking, Heero hurries to hide his artistic side and his most sacred painting, and first destination on the vacation is revealed... and Duo's prank call to Wufei.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 3  
"Try Not To Breathe"  
  
  
  
Music notes and flashes of inkblots on staff paper were the first images that stalked Trowa's brain as he fell asleep, slowly blurring into a manic-paced, blinking montage of the day passed. Even in the haze of REM sleep, he thought vaguely to himself that it was strange; his normal dreams were cryptic, ambiguous, and Freudian to the point of near insanity. They were a mystery to even himself. Each was a collage of color, menial human actions like hands shuffling papers or shoes standing in line, thin dialogue, and symbolic slideshows of pictures he was sure he'd never seen before, but somehow had. He had never relieved things he'd done during the day in a dream before, as far as he remembered. It seemed strange. A muddy objection formed in his head, but he let it drop and decided to let the dream rage on however it would. It hadn't been a bad day, after all.  
  
First, he saw the wooden door to Heero's bedroom door sleepily swing open and his disheveled brown hair creep by his line of vision, face slack and directed at the floor. In the dream, he turned and watched the Japanese man stagger down the stairs with his hands wringing complacently through the knots in his bangs. He began to mumble, but a jagged stream of flickering images cut it off. The dream skipped.   
  
It cut to the kitchen, where he vaguely comprehended that he'd been sitting there, watching Heero journey down the staircase in reality early that morning, as the thick, soupy gray cast of a cloudy morning glowed throughout the house. In slow motion, he focused on Heero's Asian face as he blinked and nodded stoically. It seemed so infinitely important, but in the haze of his subconscious he couldn't decipher what the dull light in the Prussian eyes meant.   
  
It cut again, this time to Quatre's profile from across the breakfast-swarmed table. A smile migrated across his face in what felt like an agonizingly beautiful hour. He slowly lipped something, optimistic expression lit by the light streaming in from the vista window behind him.   
  
Heero halfheartedly offered a smile back, drawing the porcelain rim of a coffee cup away from his lip and slowly shaking his head. The dull look flashed again. He flickered his dark blue eyes away from both Quatre and Trowa as the dream sped up in choppy jumps. The pale skin color and brown and smidge of blue of Heero's face melted into another scene.  
  
Quatre sat at the black baby grand, as mid-morning, grayish light slid over the top and spilled over the paper he had curled up in his lap. His old faded sweater hung loosely on him and pooled around his knees as he sat Indian style on the bench, poking the eraser end of a pencil into the hollow of his cheek to some unknown, faltering beat. Trowa remembered it.  
  
Quatre had been too engulfed in the short-lived flame of inspiration, with brow furrowing and hand ravaging through the side of his hair every few seconds, to notice that Trowa was there at all, somewhere around 10 that morning. He stood staring directly into the faint glare cast onto his fiancé's face from the piano's surface, flickering his gaze away only to watch his fingers as they furiously penned. He wedged the folded notebook underneath his leg, scribbled nearly mat black with ideas, notes, and chord progressions he'd blustered up in his artistic spark. Fingers flew to the piano, seeking out keys, and his face was stale and calculating as they fell into place and softly rang the first note. Quatre blinked once or twice, analyzing the sound, then carefully tested the water by striking a chord… then another. E minor. G major. The blonde bit his lip, contemplating for a moment, then struck the same two chords again. He pounded a few more out, then repeated the whole thing with growing confidence.  
  
Suddenly, a glow came across his face and he stormed straight through the atmospheric driving piano lilt, flourishing arpeggios with pounding precision. A full-blast grin now held his face and he kept going past the measures that he'd written originally, improvising brilliantly and smoothing through the rough, unsure parts. It was a moody, slightly dark but optimistic tune so thick with personality that it almost talked. Quatre lopsidedly blew a bang out of his eyes and quickly began to round the song out, fingers hammering and circling higher on the scale. He smiled brighter, practically glowing with happiness, but just as Trowa's ears recognized the final coda from that morning, the Arab boy abruptly stopped, fingers hovering maddeningly close to the black and cream keys. He blinked, expression becoming faint and unfocused, as he apparently went into deep thought with a brow furrowed over those bright blue-green eyes. He let his fingers rest on the keys aimlessly, letting out a flat 'oomph.'  
  
Trowa's brain frowned. This wasn't right, he thought vaguely. The warm, contented feeling of his dream had spun around and become a confused blur, pressurizing around him. Quatre had finished that song! In real life, Trowa remembered Quatre ending and jerking around in surprise, blushing slightly, as he applauded loudly, the sound echoing through the music room. He always seemed to become incredibly modest whenever he was caught creating something and Trowa found it always damned cute when he turned a slight shade of red and tried to resist smiling.  
  
He was disappointed deep in his gut he couldn't see that priceless expression again, but knew that dreams would distort themselves as they pleased… and after all, he was the one who was dreaming it… But he still had no clue what he was trying to symbolize with it or what his subconscious was trying to tell him.  
  
Suddenly, Quatre's finger slammed down on the highest key out of the blue and he glared down at it, seemingly unpleased with the sound it made. He kept pressing it until the meek ping slowly turned into a furious ring that bled through Trowa's ears. He flinched, squinting his eyes shut in the dream, trying to block out tinny ringing in his ears.  
  
The image of his fiancé faded into a slow blackout, but the obnoxious sound continued through out, pounding louder and louder into his ears as he realized he was out of the dream. Beside him, he heard Quatre mumble something in his sleep. Trowa shifted deeper into the warmth blanket as the warm skin beside him moved away suddenly and disrupted the blankets layered around him. He felt the fabric of Quatre's tank and boxers moving past him, brushing his nose and teasing him with the scent of violin rosin, and heard intermittent thuds on the floor and the sudden silencing of the alarm clock just beyond his ears. Sleepily, Trowa's brain began to frown again but couldn't pinpoint just what was upsetting him. Thank God that damned alarm clock was off, though.  
  
Quatre settled back into the heap of thick cotton quilts, this time his arm snaking under the blanket and wrapping firmly around Trowa's neck and hunched shoulder and drawing him tight and burying his face into his mop of hair like usual. In the dark under the quilts, a sliver of an amused smile crossed the pilot's face, feeling the blonde perform the mandatory nose-rub into the top of his head and the sleepy lip smack. It was like clockwork… clock? Alarm clock? Suddenly, something clicked in his brain.  
  
Trowa lifted his head, resentfully having to move Quatre as he was probably just falling asleep again. Trying to suppress the guilt pang, he blinked open his eyes, almost sore to do anything but relax, and said in a groggy morning voice, "Quatre?"  
  
"…What?"  
  
"…You didn't set the alarm, did you?"  
  
The blonde's face remained still for a second below him, then the aqua eyes squinted open, confused from sleep. They blinked up at him, face still buried halfway into the pillow, and suddenly Trowa heard laughing. He whipped his head around, disheveled hair swinging from the motion, and managed to keep his eyes open despite the bright light stinging them. They sighted on a… person? Sitting only a few feet from him, Trowa was ruffled to see a brunette boy with long braided hair and a beaming American smile that he knew as—  
  
"Duo?"  
  
Quatre jerked awake beside him, offering an intelligent, "Mmnhha?"  
  
Duo's face split further, if it was possible to get past the imp grin he already had. "Gotcha!"   
  
The American wriggled up from his seat on the gold-lit wooden floor and quickly crawled over on his threadbare hands and knees over to his friends, only to be nearly toppled over by the blonde's enthusiastic arms clenched around his shoulders. He laughed in a bit of surprise, and then returned the fierce affection by clapping Quatre on the back and ruffling his already ratted hair from behind.   
  
Trowa, plagued with equally ratty hair at the moment, sat Indian style just a few inches away from Quatre, a place Duo suspected he'd be spotted often, with the alarm clock in his hand and turning it over with a snort. Duo glanced over to him over Quatre's shoulder, a humorous smile crawling instantly across his face as Trowa only gave a small knowing smirk in return. He shifted his attention back to the lithe little blonde thrown around him as an arm squeezed around a rib that it shouldn't and he sucked in a breath, wincing. Trowa smiled broadly, snorting in amusement with a shake of his head.  
  
"Ow." Duo gingerly gestured to where his bruised rib lay in his chest, as Quatre cocked his head up.  
  
His friend cracked an apologetic smile. "Sorry!" he replied quickly, withdrawing the hug sheepishly.  
  
"Good morning to you, too!" The American said as he straightened out, rubbing his right side and smiling at the slightly dazed expression Quatre had. He noticed that he looked like a yellow and peach dust bunny this morning—hair flopped in odd angles, the loose green tank top wrinkled and scrunched, and just looking very unprepared for sunlight of any kind. His round aqua-green eyes were wide in surprise and now very much awake.  
  
"Duo! I—I—How are you? You look great!" The blonde said, scooting forward to study the changes in his friend's face.  
  
He glanced down at his clothes, a bit broken in at the least, and tugged at the hem of his jacket and snorted good-humoredly. "I wouldn't say great necessarily, but yeah, I'm okay," he answered. He laughed again, his hand automatically running against the dense sectioned hair at the back of his head. "But thanks anyway for the flattery. You're making me out to be some kind of lady killer."  
  
"When did you get here?" Quatre asked.  
  
A sly, titled smile crossed his sun-freckled face and he causally shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Heero found me just this morning. Well, to be more precise, we ran into each other and I just about knocked out the poor guy's teeth out."  
  
Trowa's face twisted up. "You did what to him?"  
  
"Alright, alright," the American relented, palms up in the air jokingly. "I sort of dropped my sunglasses, picked them up, and then caught Heero's jaw with my skull when I stood up. Nothing big, though. He's survived bigger 'traumatizing' incidents than _that_." He laughed through a pearly grin.   
  
Trowa smirked at him in response. "If had been anyone but you, he would have thrashed you to a pulp."  
  
"Gee, that's reassuring," Duo shot back, glaring playfully with expressive violet eyes at his friend.  
  
The blonde's gaze flickered off the side, shying off Duo's arm to the glimpse of braid swinging out. They widened slightly, blinking in disbelief, as he saw the coil of hair lounging beside Duo that could have passed as a small pet. "Your hair's gotten long…" he said observantly.   
  
"Yeah, I know," the American said playfully as he pulled the appendage over his shoulder and wagged the frayed tail. "And even after two decades, it's still a bitch to wash."  
  
Trowa conspiringly leaned back, shoulder brushing Quatre's back, and clapped his hands over his ears with a stony straight face, eliciting a laugh from Duo.  
  
A smile snaked to his monotone surface as the blonde's face twisted up playfully, and he picked the long fingers off of his ears and let them drop. "It's okay, _Mother_," Quatre poked.   
  
"I don't want you repeating any of those words," Trowa returned with his own flat humorous tone.  
  
He turned and nudged his finger at his fiancé's nose as a playful returning jab. "You know what I think? I think you should take a nap if you're going to butt in on my conversations."   
  
The unanticipated traces of sarcasm in Quatre's voice were betrayed by the wide smile on his face. Duo's gaze suddenly zeroed in on the glint of gold on silhouetted against Trowa's skin as the blonde responded with some buttery words that were filtered from his attention.  
  
"Oh my god!" Duo interrupted, smacking his forehead. "I forgot to congratulate you guys on your engagement!"  
  
"Oh…" Quatre looked confused as he whipped his head back to Duo, then the expression stilled and soon was filled with a thinly veiled blush. "Heero told you?"  
  
The brown-haired boy shrugged innocently with a wiry smile. "That, and I could tell from the ring you're wearing…" He drifted off the sentence, arching his eyebrows obviously, then grinning at Quatre, who found it suddenly very difficult not to turn the exact shade of ripe watermelon. His expression suddenly softened from the usual loud, brash grin as he continued. "But seriously, congrats. I'm so incredibly happy for you guys."  
  
"Well…thank you, Duo," Quatre responded, the red blooming all over  
  
"No, no… actually, I should be thanking you. I've invested a lot into you guys, and it looks bad to gamble if you lose, you know?" The American flickered conspiring eyes to the silent one, whose face was as knowing as his own. Trowa shifted his attention to his legs and the baggy blue fabric over them then smiled to himself and rubbed his nose as Duo continued to explain away Quatre's clouded expression. The blonde glanced over his shoulder to his fiancé, who was still smiling thinly to himself, then shrugged the worn strap of Heero's old green tank back onto his shoulder and focused back on Duo.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Duo chuckled, pursing his lips together in a broad smile, and anxiously hooked the loose bangs behind his ears. "Well, you see…" He gestured aimlessly with his right palm, and then smiled again at the oddity memories running through his mind, especially one of an almost frenetic, love-struck Trowa ending up at his dorm room door late into the night on Peacemillion. "Well, one night Trowa showed up at my door… at what? Three, four in the morning?"  
  
Duo glanced to the Heavyarms pilot in reference. The once stoic green eyes were thick and layered with affection now as he met gazes with him. Trowa nodded, shrugging as well. "Something pathetic like that…"  
  
"No, wait, it was 2:15! I remember, because that's the first thing I saw as Heero woke me up, those damned red numbers. And he beat me over the head with my own pillow, no less."  
  
Trowa snorted, half-laughingly. "So Heero's REM cycles and PMS cycles have always been matching plagues… Doesn't surprise me."  
  
"Tell me about it…" A pair of violet eyes rolled.  
  
Quatre whined suddenly, driving a stake between the conversation, and drew his eyebrows together with confusion still misting through his brain. "Are you going to tell _me _about what happened, or do I have to guess at until I get it right?" He didn't even flinch as Trowa's arms snaked their way around his shoulders and he found the crook of the blonde's shoulder and neck to be suitable to rest his head in. His aqua-blue eyes remained riveted to Duo's face as his hand reached up and idly toyed with his fiancé's.   
  
The smile was seething under his skin, Duo knew—that sappy little grin that he rarely let see the light of day anymore—but he let the lopsided, knowing grin slip into it's slot and replace it as he continued.   
  
"So anyway, I'm having this really nice dream about having tea with John Lennon and Yoko Ono with a pumpkin growing under the table and the next thing I know, Heero's waking me up and giving me a concussion with the pillow and he points to the door. He says that Trowa wants to see me and I figured it must be important." Duo laughed, fingering stray hair behind his ear. "To wander in and disturb Heero's sleep after a stressful day takes a lot of either gut or desperation, so I took him back to the cafeteria and sat him down. It was nearly pitch black in there and I was going to ask if he wanted something to eat quick when he suddenly blurts out, 'I love Quatre.'"   
  
As Duo titled his head back to recall the memory from the long dark hallways of his mind, in his peripheral vision he could see the blonde glancing curiously back at Trowa, whose face probably was still plastered with a slow, blissful smile.   
  
"…Then I think I tripped on the table bench and hit my knee—I mean, it was that surprising.  
  
"And Trowa… you looked like someone had just pulled a gun to your head and held you hostage for a few weeks straight on a caffeine blitz. You were really stirred up and I don't think you had slept at all that night."  
  
"Three nights," the stoic one corrected, tightening the warm vice around Quatre's shoulders.  
  
"Well, whatever, you looked like crap. Death warmed over." Duo's smile tinted with sympathy, bubbly contentment coming up in his stomach. He curled his knees up to his stomach, causally hooking his arms around his legs and holding them to his chest. "And I could tell that you really meant it—you know, that lady killer intuition. So, I sat you down and gave you a damn straight pep talk about getting up and doing something about it—"  
  
"Which was much appreciated, but did you have to wink so much?" Trowa interrupted.  
  
A mischievous grin bloomed on his face, lips cocking at an odd angle, and Duo leapt at the opportunity he saw waiting for him like a pile of fresh meat. "Oh come on, Trowa, you and I both know that you liked it," the American cooed, with the innuendo rolling off his lip under the mandatory eyebrow quirk.   
  
The serious look split instantly into a roar of laughter as Trowa rolled his eyes and a smile harassed the corner of his lips. He looked over to the gold-lit far wall, burying his face in his hand and shaking his head. Quatre was laughing loudly, hair flopping wildly, and leaning heavily back into Trowa, with a red hybrid of amusement and blush across his face. He glanced backwards at his fiancé, clumsily pinning his lips together and trying not to laugh at Trowa's thinly veiled embarrassment. Finally, Trowa slumped his head over Quatre's bare shoulder and bury his face in it, trying to stifle the laughter at himself, which only made the other two laugh louder.   
  
Fiercely curious, the scrappy little brown dog was suddenly in their midst, digging his nose through the ruffled edges of the quilts and turned optimistic little brown eyes up to his masters. Numskull trotted over toward Quatre's foot with the signature ticka-ticka of his nails on the wooden floor, nudging it gently and standing on his ankle to make him noticed. When his masters continued to laugh, he snorted unhappily and shifted his attention to Duo, turning confused liquid brown eyes to the new scent.   
  
Duo smiled down on the pet, then scooped him up into his lap and instantly gave him a good rough scratch behind the ear. The dog instantly appreciated it; his free-hanging leg kicked against Duo's knee. As the American laughed at the wrenchingly cute gesture, a sudden string of words came from his stomach, announcing that his internal clock was once again fretting over a missed meal. After all, Duo didn't consider Barbie-plastic airplane peanuts in any food group.  
  
He flinched at the sound of his own stomach growling, Numskull sniffing curiously at it, and then said, "Well…"  
  
Quatre sat up, a mischievous grin plastered on his face, as he pushed Trowa back to impel himself forward, then carefully put a hand to his hair and flopped it back somewhat into place. At least so his part didn't resemble the state of West Virginia.  
  
"Okay. First," the blonde said, glancing down at his ruffled pajamas, "some clothes, then breakfast."  
  
The braided boy hoisted the tiny dog up into the air, fingers wrapped around his tiny ribcage. He looked Numskull in the eyes and asked, "Sound good?" When the disheveled little dog didn't bark and just stared up at him eagerly, Duo shrugged and said, "Heh. Why not?"  
  
  
  
In the gloomy gray light, punctured by brave sentries of hazy orange overhead lights, Heero could only hear his shoes cuffing against the ground as he ran. He loped deeper into the maze of slopes and ramps lined by bulky cement pillars and partitions. Far off, over the silent masses of cars, he could see the warm morning light glowing around the fenced windows looking over the Rainy City. He paused, considered it for a moment, and caught a fraction of his breath, then spun around and stared into the orange and lime-green spotted dimness. His bearings suddenly came back to him; he remembered that he had parked in Montgomery A, 5th floor. Heero trotted around the cement barricade on the side of the ramp, then dug in and sprinted up the incline, his loosened black tie flopping annoyingly against his chest as he ran.   
  
The instinct to run, to out race preying bad luck, only made him feel even more stupid. Foolish. It was damned idiotic of him to just leave it there, his most conflicted thoughts and psyche splattered out on canvas, when he knew that it could destroy his brittle esteem if any one saw besides Quatre, Trowa, or Relena. Painting his thoughts had been meant to be only a therapeutic activity, and then had grown into an addictive outlet that Heero wasn't sure he would have emotionally survived without. And now!—Now he was running scared!  
  
He had the tempting urge to smack himself in the forehead, but his impulse was compromised when he suddenly caught a glimpse of blocky paint on the whitewashed cement block wall. He stopped with the soles of his feet coughing and scratching over the blacktop like brakes.   
  
Montgomery A.   
  
Heero flickered his eyes over the cars, spotted the familiar black Camero, and then jerked into motion again.   
  
He weaved around one of his coworkers rickety red Gemini, then past an anonymous white, covered pickup, and finally was running up the driver side of his car. Its surface reflected the distant green and orange lights, making it seem like it was covered in Halloween-schemed Christmas lights or something. He quickly rummaged the key from his pocket, yanking it roughly out, and unlocked the door, swinging the door open.  
  
The Japanese man produced a large white card from his shirt pocket and hastily let it fall cockeyed in the passenger seat on top of a pile of manila folders and papers. He clumsily sat down, nerves and fear and adrenaline raging, and flopped against the seat. Heero suddenly felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders and allowed himself to catch his breath. His body deserved it, for giving quite a performance compared to sitting on his ass for most of the day.   
  
He'd run from the hospital three and a half blocks back to the station and where he'd planned to momentarily stick his head in, grab Duo's forgotten bag, and say sayonara, the police station insisted he stay for a second to get a happy wedding card, a second that really meant a few minutes or so. Ninety precious seconds he had to make up on the sprint to the parking ramp. As he sat, chest heaving mostly from pure rattling anxiety, he put his hand to his forehead and rubbed at the knot between his eyebrows. One last deep sigh brought him back to semi-normal nerves, and he quickly leaned out and snapped the door shut. Before he could even register he was doing it, the keys were in the ignition, the car purring, and his hand jerking the shift up to reverse.   
  
The sleek black car wheeled out into the lane, then gunned forward to the ramp, taking a dangerously sharp turn for most, but commonplace for someone accustomed to killer G-forces and a ton of gundanium steel. Heero was in 'mission mode' until he veered the car around the bend at the bottom of the ramp. Then he breathed heavily out and numbly sensed his body going into the familiar driving pattern he'd taken every day. Turn, drive 20 yards, take a left…  
  
Again, he put his hand up to the persistent knot, and suddenly was plagued by his own ironic humor. He thought to himself that the entire experience would make for good painting fodder. He snorted and smiled faintly to no one.   
  
The cement partition was suddenly in front of him, covered with graffiti, and reminded him that he was almost out. His hands jerked and wrenched the steering wheel again, recovering from his distraction. As he turned the final corner, yellowish light flooded in from the doorway and he pulled up to the pay booth, he paid up quickly, rolling down his window and dumping the money into the faceless worker's expecting hand, and revved the engine as the yellow bar lifted. He sped out into the light, paused at the road, glanced mechanically down both sides, and was out roaring away in traffic two seconds later.   
  
"Damn those pictures," he grumbled to the car, "…that was my paint money."  
  
  
  
Duo watched his sock-covered toes stretch out from under his bangs, long legs curled up on the chair Indian style under him, and then flipped the hair out of his eyes and looked up to follow what Quatre was saying, positioned across the large rounded table from him. The blonde tilted his head as he continued talking, the bright light reflecting off the distant city glowing across the side of his face. Newly clad in his fuzzy gray sweater with red and black lining around the cuff and collar, he had stopped rubbing his cold fingers and withdrawn them into the sweater itself. As Duo's attention shifted back to Quatre, he could also hear the mundane white noise of eggs hissing in the pan and Trowa murmuring occasionally to the restless Numskull at his feet. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished dark brown wood and scratching at his ear, with a tiny smile.   
  
"You know, Quatre, you guys really should have organized a double wedding," Duo commented, brushing the stray hairs behind his ear as innate habit. "That would have been great."  
  
The blonde was lifting up his drink with orange pulp scattered over the glass as he nodded causally. "Yeah," he agreed after a sip, "but we'd be short a best man."  
  
Duo's right eyebrow cocked up in the air, curious. "Who, me?"  
  
"I don't see why not. You'd have your route down like a dream. Two weddings, only practice for one."  
  
The range hissed loudly, flaring up from the other side of the kitchen as the cinnamon-haired man turned from the stove and smirked lightly at Duo. "We could always make you a bridesmaid if you have a complaint."  
  
"And wear a tangerine taffeta dress? I'm sorry to say that I think I'm going to deny myself that privilege, but thank you anyway, _Trowa_," the American replied, sarcasm and humor dicing his deep voice. He snorted when Trowa shrugged, closing his eyes and turning to the spitting, half-done eggs. He turned back to face Quatre, who chuckled as well. "A black and white monkey suit sounds pretty damn good by now."  
  
"We've still got to get you one, too." The blonde leaned forward and nudged the porcelain plate covered with donuts to Duo, blue eyes glancing up at him. "You hungry?"  
  
The American was slackened back against the chair. "I'm sure Heero will want breakfast too, but hell," he commented with a shrug and slight of a smile, reaching forward and picking up the last raspberry jelly donut, "you snooze, you lose."  
  
Trowa nudged idly at eggs cooking, yawning loudly and twisting his neck to side to stretch, and then set the fork down with a clatter on the counter. He was turning around and leaning against the counter when a curt little whine brought his attention down. Numskull clattered around on the wooden floor by his foot, eyes begging. Trowa flickered his green eyes back and forth from his fiancé to his friend, talking at the table, then smiled down at the brown puppy.   
  
"Hm. One," he said softly to the dog. He knelt down and scooped him up, arm secured around his ribcage. "But only one."  
  
Duo licked off the jelly leftovers on his lip and swallowed his food, glancing over to the stove where he saw the turtleneck-clad Trowa hoisting his dog up to the stove. He adjusted his hold on Numskull as his left arm reached for the fork on the counter and snipped off a piece of the over easy egg he was frying. With a smile and murmuring little sweet nothings to his pet, he let Numskull nip the piece off the fork with tail whipping almost violently. It elicited a big smile from the American as he leaned back, shifting his eyes to Quatre.   
  
"Does he do that all the time?" A thumb jerked in the vague direction of the stove.   
  
The Arab glanced over in the direction where Duo's hitchhiker thumb indicated, focused on the sight of his fiancé babying the dog and ruffling his thick brown fur. He shook his head with a smile. "Yeah. He's definitely Trowa's dog. He spoils him like a child."  
  
"So he would be the ring bearer?" Duo asked, resting his cheek on his knuckles.  
  
A smile beamed at him from across the table. "And his circus lion can be the flower girl."  
  
The two indulged in a conspiratory laugh, leaving the oblivious, slack-faced Trowa confused by the laughter from the kitchen table he had a sense was somewhat aimed at him. The cinnamon haired man glanced to the small dog he held with a cockeyed ear flashing pink against the brown pelt, and then shrugged. He was just turning back to the over easy eggs, which were making unpromising spits and hisses on the pan, when the tiny dog's head suddenly jerked up, stared at the vista window past Quatre' head, and then went AWOL. Numskull whipped his little dog body out of Trowa's grip and landed on the wooden floor with a loud clatter of puppy claws, skidding this way and that and having a minor collision with the counter as he picked up speed and then blew out of the room, yapping like no body's business. Trowa simply shook his head, patting a few stray hairs into place on his head, and then rubbed at the scratches on his arm where Numskull had dug in.   
  
Duo blinked, eyebrows furrowing at the odd sight that had just taken place, void of all explanation. He turned back to Quatre, the other two legs of the chair that he'd suspended in the air with his weight hitting the floor with a scuff. "…What was that about?"  
  
The blonde smiled mischievously, a trait that scared Duo it was so eerily familiar of his own. Quatre nonchalantly pointed to the window and then stood up, clattering his empty glass on to his unfilled plate and heading to go get his food.   
  
He paused, though, and said, "Someone's come home to claim his donuts. You'd better hurry up and get it out of your stomach, or he might get mad."  
  
The American leaned over so that from his angle he could see the long winding, tree-swamped drive way and the black Camero, a pretty damn nice car at that, whirring up the path and whipping around to the side of the house and disappearing. Duo's eyes lit up instantly over an almost malicious grin, putting two and two together in a flash, and then he was quickly scooting out his chair with a loud screech of wood against wood and running out the kitchen archway in similar fashion as Numskull.  
  
"What's he doing to Heero now?" Trowa mused to himself with a smile.   
  
Without warning as the Latin boy turned back to the range, scratching at the back of his neck, a little pale blonde head popped up on his shoulder and Quatre's free arm was draped over the other, teasing little circles in the fabric of the green sweater. He grinned down at the entree his fiancé was frowning at; it now resembled more like a marshmallow left too long to the tongues of campfire than the breakfast he'd expected. "And what are you doing to my food?"   
  
Trowa twisted his head and smiled, Quatre's hair brushing up against the side of his face. "Shut up," he said, kissing his fiancé gently on the temple.   
  
The grin on the blonde's face grew. "Just give me my burnt food."  
  
  
  
Heero stoned his face and once again balled up his nerves and tried to ignore them, taking a deep breath in the cold air and breathing out a misty cloud of steam as he sighed it back out. He turned slightly to the side so he could shut the passenger car door, and carefully thumbed the black fabric strap of Duo's tattered backpack that he was holding, looking down at the pocks and scars and fraying holes on it. It almost made him laugh; he recognized it as that old pack Heero had borrowed from one of the mechanics on Peacemillion and then had fallen into Duo's hands after he'd finally become fed up with his incessant prattle about this and that and tossed at him and told him to clean his guns if he was so bored. Then he remembered going back to typing.   
  
Ha. He'd never asked for it back.  
  
Faint remnants of a smile flickered across his face, then slipped out of sight as he shouldered the backpack on his right side and walked around the back of the car, shoes fwapping as they stepped in the slush lacing the tar. As he walked toward the door, he looked to the vista window and squinted slightly to see if anybody was in there.   
  
A slight paranoia welled up inside his chest when he couldn't, thanks mostly to the yellow glare on the glass. It a sure sign that, with his damned luck, they were already displaying his paintings to Duo and scoffing at the pathetic nature of them. Probably pointing out the most microscopic flaws in the depth, color, perception, or anything else he could think of. Setting up his self-confidence to burn.   
  
Heero suppressed the thought quickly at the sudden pang of pain in the back of his head, a dark little warning that he had been hoping he'd never hear from again. His nerves inflated in size again and his feet were scoffing on the tar as he dashed up to the door, making loud, almost panicked noises on the wooden porch floorboards. Heero shifted the ragged backpack further behind him, and nervously opened the door. Before his foot left the slushy porch, there were two tiny paws clawing at his pant leg and loud yips heralding his arrival. Numskull's tongue lolled out of his mouth in anticipation as the harsh, frantic expression on Heero's face softened and that intangible slight of smile returned to his face.  
  
As the Japanese man dropped the backpack near the shoebox and leaned over, hand rolling over Numskull's matted brown fur and his disheveled chocolate brown hair hanging out in the air, he barely had the perception to notice that the closet door was opened a breath, just enough for fingertips to grip around it and a hint of life to glance through the space. An eye blinked, taking in the sight of Heero straightening out and smiling with a loud laugh as the little dog chewed at a piece of snow he'd logged in and then spit it out in distaste.  
  
The eye blinked again, the expression changing to a blurry, riveted haze, before the fingers hastily withdrew from the closet door and all signs of life gelled into the black.   
  
Simultaneously, Heero shrugged his coat off his right shoulder, let it swing off his other, and then instinctively reached for the brass coat closet doorknob. He watched Numskull skitter happily back into the kitchen, disappearing around the bend. It amazed even himself that such a little gesture made such a stir in his often-neglected emotion well. Deciding to sober up before he acted like a fool, Heero shook his hand briefly through his hair with his jacket draped over his elbow and then opened the closet.   
  
Lightning-fast nerves reacted first, and before Heero had even turned around, the shadowy presence slipped out expertly and there was a hand across the Japanese man's eyes and an arm viced around his chest and holding down his arm.   
  
Heero jerked, taken off-guard by the abrupt human contact and darkness that covered his vision, and his nerves exploded all over again. War memories and old paranoia shrieked in the back of his brain. He was bending his leg to give his unknown assailant a kick he wouldn't soon forget when…  
  
"Guess who," a baritone voice cooed in his ear.  
  
Heero remembered to exhale once he realized just whom the strange body warmth pressed against his back and the hand over his eyes belonged too. It came out unnaturally ragged and he took another one to steady himself. He sighed and responded tiredly, "Duo."  
  
The free hand gently slapped his shoulder, with a snort of laughter. "Too easy. Next question."   
  
Suddenly, Heero felt his friend's long, tousled bangs brushing against the back of his neck, an odd, flickering feeling itching at his skin. He shuddered, taking in a sharp little breath, and masked a token, "What?" over it.  
  
The American continued assertively, not noticing the slight alteration in Heero's breathing pattern. Duo, still holding Heero captive easily by using his slight upper hand height-wise to his advantage, grinned over his shoulder and said, "Tell me the first place we're going and you'll escape a brutal interrogation session."  
  
"I don't know about you," Heero flatly returned, "but I was headed for the kitchen." He reached up to pull his braided comrade's fingers off from over his eyes but as soon as they were pried free, Duo snapped them back down, drumming them idly over his cheekbone and nose.  
  
"Un-uh," he protested boldly, "you aren't going to sashay out of this one, Yuy."  
  
Heero sighed, his entire body heaving as his nerves finally grasped the concept that as long as Duo was here interrogating him, he couldn't be roaming the house and stumbling across a box filled with sensitive bits of himself. "Alright…" he gave in, letting his shoulders fall slack with the brunette American still draped over them.  
  
Duo visibly tensed up, biting his lip with a keyed up grin. He even let his fingers drop and grant Heero the gift of his restored vision.   
  
"…I'll have to waltz my way out, then," he stated, wryly.  
  
Duo whimpered suddenly in his ear, wrenching his neck around so that his eyes could see his uncooperative captive's face. He puckered his lips adeptly, knowing how to skew in just enough pathetic dejection pout that would have either induced guilt or laughter in normal human beings, but barely scratched Heero's defenses. "Come on, Heero!" he said, frustration grating in the back of his voice. "Please? You don't even have to tell me straight out, you can torture me with inane little hints like good ole times."  
  
The Japanese man glanced to the American one; his expressive face was cocked off to the side of his own like some second evil head, and Heero quickly closed his eyes to Duo and shrugged noncommittally. "Hn," sufficed him for the moment.   
  
Duo's gaze darkened and one eyebrow furrowed deeper than the other. "Oh, get your skivvies in a bunch, would ya, Heero?" he joked in frustration.   
  
Arms dropped, relinquishing blood flow to Heero's shoulder and his normal breathing pattern. Heero turned his head, taking in the scene of his best friend flustered at him. Duo stepped back, flipping the long, slinky braid of hair effortlessly over his tank-clad shoulder with a bothered flip of his head, and then prodded a finger accusingly in his direction.  
  
"I'm going to be only one in the whole house without a clue as to where we're going. And, knowing me and my damned luck, I'll pack Bermuda shorts for a trip to Siberia, and, knowing you, Heero, you'll get a week's laughs out of it."  
  
Heero nodded to himself, chocolate bangs bobbing. "Hm, yeah."  
  
"You're impossible," Duo yielded finally, the harsh angle of his akimbo stance betrayed by the warm grin on his face. "But don't worry, I'll harass it out of you eventually."  
  
The American sighed as he glanced down to the floor, considering nothing for a few seconds. He shifted his gaze back up to the motionless Heero, focused on the dark jacket still clenched in his friend's hand, and grinned in irony.   
  
"Oh, hey," he said, "let me put that away for you."  
  
He gripped the denim sleeve of Heero's jacket and the Japanese man quickly let him take it, remaining static and just observing the surprising gesture of courtesy. His brooding Prussian eyes traced the fluid movement of Duo's serpentine braid as he leaned into the closet, chatting humorously to himself as he hung it up, then shut the door. Bright, optimistic violet eyes turned back to him, over an angled smile.  
  
"Sorry 'bout breakfast," the American said, grin slighting larger in size.  
  
Heero stared at the amused expression with confusion smoldering up in his throat. He let one eye brown arch up over his stoic blue eye and slipped out a monotone, "What?"  
  
A bare arm slung around Heero's shoulder, no longer antagonistic, and Duo egged him into walking along side him. "You like jelly donuts?" he asked, sparking the confusion larger in Heero's logical mind.   
  
"…No…"  
  
"Good," Duo said vaguely, the impish grin almost glinting in the Japanese man's eyes. The infection of happiness spread to the other, and Heero snorted, a minute tilt gracing his lips. He turned his eyes away to focus on the kitchen archway, sensing his comrade's gaze drilling into his cheek.   
  
"Uh-uh! I saw that smile," the baritone voice ribbed in his ear. He brashly poked at his friend's cheekbone, the anxious, optimistic butterflies in his stomach fluttering on fractured wings at the hope he might get a reaction out of his stoic friend, preferably another smile…   
  
And damn!—They were intoxicating. A reaction to the stimuli; an addictive sense that Duo could cause anything he wanted out of Heero. Of course, he'd never admit that unless he was dying a slow, agonizing poisoned death with friends hovering over his pathetic body… or completely wasted. The grin clenching his own face widened slightly, fed by the sudden images of a drunken Heero. If that bastard was even capable of getting drunk at all, that is, he bitterly reminded himself.  
  
'I should find out.' The thought echoed through the hollow of his head.   
  
"Come on, Heero," he said abruptly, his outward show roaring forward and taking control, "let's go eat, hm?"  
  
  
  
Trowa engorged his eyes on the chocolate box scene laid out before him; it always seemed to stir up long lost memories, cramped in some forgotten alcove of his brain, that were buttery and vague. He loved staring endlessly at the blue skies floating above the spruces. He closed his green eyes, getting murky and tired as sleep clawed at his bones again, and his body was pining to dream again. Luckily, Quatre was pressed up beside him and doubled as a 24-hour available pillow, so the Latin boy stretched out on the chair facing the frosted kitchen window and curled up against the blonde's shoulder. His hands still were clenched around a smoldering full cappuccino cup, warmth oozing into his cold fingers.   
  
Quatre smiled to himself, reaching out with his fork and spearing a bite of 'well-done' egg into his mouth while his round aqua-green eyes riveted to the thin newspaper print. His taste buds complained, but his jaw kept chewing. After all, it wasn't the first time that breakfast should have gone, burnt flakes and all, into the dog's bowl and he was used to it by now. The Arab wasn't going to critique Trowa's cooking résumé, when his own had an arson record attached to it.   
  
His eyes were just scanning across the newest sniper article when a blur of color and bodies caught his attention. Quatre looked up, poking a leftover egg bit into his mouth with his fork, and absorbed the sight of the other two pilots standing in the archway, soaked by ginger-colored light.   
  
The American's arm was jauntily thrown over Heero's shoulder and the eccentric Maxwell grin plastered across his heart-shaped, tanned face. "Look what I found in the gutter on the side of the road, Quat," he announced spiritedly, hand lifting off the Japanese man's shoulder to dishevel his hair further. Heero flinched, squeezing one of his eyes shut, and sighed with a tinge of laughter. He shook his head as the master of ceremonies of the house continued loudly. "It's your wedding present! Like it?"  
  
"Hm." For the sake of humor, the blonde crackled the newspaper down in his lap and squinted at Heero, stroking his chin. "I don't know. Do you still have the receipt?"  
  
Trowa's bass voice rang out flatly, but with an undeniable humorous edge. "Just rewrap it and give it to your sister for Ramadan. She'll never know the difference."  
  
A warped smile darted in Trowa's direction from his fiancé, mostly from the irony that Ramadan was a fasting holiday.   
  
"Morning, Heero. Morning, Duo." Trowa said, dodging the mischievous glances from his blue-eyed lover. When Quatre gave up on Trowa dropping an opportunity to razz him for his remark, he snorted, the warm breath clouding on the side of Trowa's face and ear, and said good morning as well.  
  
"Did you two eat my cupcakes?" Heero suddenly shot back, his soldier eyes flitting over the suspicious crumbs scattered on the table. The arm resting on his shoulder twitched, and violet eyes seized on his agitated profile.   
  
The braided boy smirked at him and asked, "Cupcakes?" with masculine eyebrows arching and an impish slur in his tone. Before his common sense could react and warn against it, his lips let out a razzing, "Sounds like kind of feminine food for the Indestructible Yuy."  
  
Heero's Prussian eyes were goring angrily back into his own in an instant, flashing something dark and cramped in his pupils that made Duo flinch. He blinked through his ragged brown bangs and stepped away, hands flung almost comically in the air and eyes wide above an apologetic nervous grin. Inside his brain, the cells clashed for a sensible answer, but came up barren.   
  
"Hey, I like cupcakes!" he sputtered out. When the most infamous terrorist of the last century glared back at him, he panicked again. "I do!"  
  
A growl crouched at the back of Heero's throat, the sudden, choking defense mechanism taking over his expression and actions before he could react. The playful stab seemed cutting and hurtful in a way that Heero hadn't experienced before… and, coming from Duo, it really itched under his skin. But seeing the fright in his best friend's expression drove a pang of guilt into his heart, slowly combating the hurt and angry defense it installed. Heero didn't mean to hurt him. And the last objective he had in mind was to start a fight with Duo.   
  
The fury edged off and Heero sighed deeply to himself. He tiredly focused on Duo's face, a blur of peach and brown and violet until his vision cleared.  
  
Wait… It was blurry?  
  
In a gravelly voice, Heero responded, "Sorry, Duo, I've been under a lot of stress lately."  
  
Concerned violet eyes were focused on him and he could see Duo's lips shifting to make words, but Heero quickly devised a cut-off. "You know… with April in the hospital and all," he said, the words false and grating on his tongue. "It's just getting to me."  
  
A few seconds tense twiddled away with both of them clumsily silent before the American shattered it with a nonchalant grin.   
  
"Hey… No prob." The sudden impulse to clap Heero on the shoulder to cheer him up popped up in his throat and he vented it by hooking his hand behind his head and scratching his at his glossy hair, knowing it wasn't a good time. He turned his head and sustained eye contact fearlessly with his friend as he trotted toward the table, shrugging with a bright expression. "You just need breakfast, that's why."   
  
The American leaned against the table and held up the crumb-covered plate optimistically. "Want a donut?"  
  
Trowa's green eyes were glued to Heero's face, knowing just as well as his fiancé that he'd just witnessed a loud warning sign.  
  
"No." Heero waved it off. "I'll get my own."  
  
Duo's face soured a bit, confused, then he brushed it off with a shrug and sat down to talk to Trowa, glancing at the newspaper tossed on the table.  
  
Heero was brushing his fingers through the bushy mass of chocolate brown bangs at his forehead as he looked down at the floor and was halfway to the refrigerator to get his habitual Hostess cupcake when a plate was shoved under his nose. Frozen chocolate scent jumped into his senses and Heero found himself confronted with two chilly, somewhat slumped cupcakes on a cream blue plate. He turned his head up to see a sympathetic blonde empath smiling at him.  
  
Quatre offered the best warm look he could, sensing the pang of dark vulnerability from Heero. He understood how brittle his emotions could be. It brought him a scrap of happiness to see the Japanese man force a weak smile and take the plate, to know that he could be brought back from the edge of the abyss before it dug its teeth in and consumed him.   
  
Suddenly, Heero lifted his head fully, Prussian eyes blank and fearful. "Quatre."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The paintings," he whispered quietly, eyes never leaving the lifeline that was currently Quatre's face. "Could you—"  
  
"Of course, Heero." Quatre nodded happily, seeming to have found the fountain from where the fear had come from.   
  
Quatre walked out of the kitchen languidly, in no big hurry, and disappeared around the corner, the sounds of his bare feet on the wooden floorboards echoing for a few seconds. Duo, who was currently taking another bite of the last brown glazed donut, cocked his head to the side and was confused.   
  
Before he could inquire what the curt exit meant, Heero was sauntering back towards the table with a cup of cold reserve coffee. He sat down in the wooden chair next to Duo, facing him, so that brunettes populated the entire left side of the table. The American chewed the bit of sugary dough, anxiously pulling out a finger that he'd been licking impolitely, and was about to open his mouth before Heero interrupted.  
  
"Sorry," Heero apologized again, giving the faint ghost of a smile on his lips and putting his plate down. "I really am. Didn't mean to frighten you." Although the tinge of fear still rang in the back of Duo's consciousness, grounded by brutal evidence of Heero's previous retaliations he'd experienced in the war, the apology drew a lopsided little smile out of him. The American shrugged his shoulders ambiguously, holding up the donut and waving it slightly.  
  
"S'okay," he said, chewing another sugary bite and looking down at the fabric on his knee. Humor was creeping back into his tone as violet eyes flashed up to Prussian. "I would have knocked you flat if you'd dared to call my hair girlish."  
  
The Japanese man felt a sigh of relief loosen the knotted veins and nerves throughout his body. Staring in to the warm expression of his friend, he knew that he was in amnesty from Duo. And hell, he was his best man and a prankster to boot, so conjuring little pranks and hoaxes for his big day for revenge would be easier than eating a piece of white and pink wedding cake. He wrapped his fingers around the porcelain and glanced to Trowa as he drank the cold, watery dark coffee. Prussian eyes ripped from his face though, disturbed by the fierce concern embedded in the Heavyarms pilot's face.  
  
"Like you could," he muttered in Duo's direction deliberately, hoping to instill some nostalgic Shinigami wrath in the braided boy.  
  
Duo's head lifted, lips smeared with obvious greasy sugar, and eyes wide in disbelief, engorged on his face.  
  
_Score. _  
  
"What?"  
  
Duo's surprise slowly evaporated, a more sinister expression breeding in its absence. The American's eyes lit with a dark light, making some insignificant little muscle twitch in Heero's stomach in apprehension. Duo stared into his eyes, almost boring into his soul. Then he slapped the greasy donut onto the plate, half-eaten, and grinned as Heero flinched. "Is that a challenge?"  
  
"No," Heero lied. Shinigami eyes flickered, softening for an instant. "…But it _is _getting kind of effeminate…"  
  
Duo ripped out of his chair, the loud cacophony of wood scraping on wood, plates clattering, and shoes pounding filling the kitchen, and downed the laughing, blue-eyed Japanese to the floor, starting off the grappling blitz with a rough tousling of his hair.  
  
Trowa glanced languidly down at the chaotic, feverish rolling pile of Gundam pilot and muttered a warning he was sure would just bounce off the testosterone-driven fighters' ears. "Don't break anything, okay? Yeah, roll away from the furniture… Good." He laughed and reached for Duo's sugary donut as the fight raged on.  
  
The American nearly had his opponent's right arm pinned completely to the floor, sitting gingerly on his stomach, before military training instincts in Heero caused his left arm to shoot up and knock Duo off him. He collapsed to the floor with a yelp of laughing surprise, his long braid slapping the wooden panels like a whip. Heero crawled up onto his hands and knees before Shinigami recovered and was viciously tackling him again, slurring a threat to take him to Hell with him. He always was faster, Heero brooded with a tinge of jealousy in his mind, just as a mischievous jab in his shoulder caused him to grunt in pain and lose his balance.  
  
Seizing the opportunity, the American's arms wrapped around his chest from the side and his knee pinioned down on Heero's own, knobby ones while the other supported his weight.   
  
The whirl of fighting lulled for an instant, while Duo caught his breath, and Heero cocked his head up to stare at his opponent. The American's long, deep chestnut bangs were spooned in all directions across his forehead, in the air, and one even was lodged in his mouth, which he took the liberty of spitting out with a puff of air. His arms viced around his body, slackening only when he noticed that Heero was as winded as he was. Heero's heart almost skipped a beat, noticing the explosion of white teeth with mischievous intent just above him.   
  
"If you're manly enough to mock my hair, I'm girly enough to hit you for it," he teased abstractly, the grin flashing over his face.   
  
The Japanese pilot tried to move, but a sharp ache in his knee via Duo's own smothered the rebellion and Heero decided not to try again. The American victoriously snorted above him. "Still think it's girly?" With a toss of his head, Duo let the silky brown snake slide over his shoulder and pool at the side of Heero's face, mingling with the darker hair.  
  
His eyebrows furrowed as a stray strand itched at his nose, and he jauntily blew it off his face. He stared up at Duo again. "Maybe," he answered ambiguously, stomach aching as he caged in a smile.  
  
That eager glint in those violet eyes returned, just screaming, 'I love interrogations!' It made that smile seething in his stomach lose a bit of its confidence.  
  
"I'll let you off easy if you tell me where the fuck your vacation is taking me," he cooed, tilting his head and letting the disheveled bangs swing somewhat back into place.  
  
Heero rasped a deep breath upward with his chest heaving from adrenaline. His Prussian eyes focused on Duo's violet ones, then filled with more uncharacteristic humor as he hissed defiantly, "…Bring it."  
  
Duo jerked in surprise, the whites of his eyes flashing, as a hundred and forty pounds of gritty pilot surged from under him and overthrew his authority. The Japanese man shifted his weight against the ribcage of his competitor, Duo's arm jerking back in surprise and snatching successfully at Heero's blue work shirt and knocking him over as well. Shinigami grinned and renewed the fight with equal vigor, throwing his tackling scheme to the wind. He decided that thinking was bullshit, and getting pinned meant defeat.  
  
Trowa smirked and stared at the pile of bodies and the erratic whip that was Duo's hair as he was lashed about and did some lashing of his own. Both were smirking like fools. 'They're fighting even faster now,' he commented to himself with amusement. "Hey, Heero?"  
  
Flashes of peach, sun-freckled skin, black fabric, and whipping brown hair rolled loudly on the floor with seemingly inexhaustible energy. From in the blur, he heard Heero respond, "What?"  
  
"Did you contact Relena?" Trowa asked slowly, calmly, taking another bite from Duo's breakfast.  
  
"No…I—Ah, hey!"  
  
"Don't let your guard down," Duo snapped, voice edged with exertion. The American managed to wrench his arm out of Heero's flushed red hands and then kick out his left knee from under him.   
  
Trowa snorted and smiled as the Japanese man barely escaped smacking his face firmly into the wooden floor and recovered, only to be knocked over again and be engaged in the trite rolling-about.   
  
"Hnnhmuph!" he said intelligently as his face ground against the wood. Even as he was being thrashed playfully around, he continued to finish his answer. "No… I got her—umph!—publicist and he hung up on me!" Heero punctuated the last word by swiftly standing up and knocking over and pinning Duo beneath him.  
  
"Hm. Too bad," Trowa said, casually picking up the newspaper and un-crinkling it. "We've got to call the others, too."  
  
"A little busy here!" Heero said.  
  
As thrilled as he was to have Heero on top of him, Duo's Shinigami nerves kicked in and his mind screamed at him not to pass the opportunity up. As Heero was talking, he turned his head slightly and the severe grip on Duo's arms slackened a microsecond, a blatant invitation to overpower him. The American's knee lifted into Heero's hipbone, his sore, slightly black-and-blue arm whipped free and finished the ensemble with a swift palm to his solar plexus, causing him to grunt in surprise and fall to the side. Staggering swiftly over to Heero on his hands and knees, Duo pounced on him, pinning him with impish zest. Luckily, one of Heero's hands had been lodged under his body as he fell on his back, so Duo only needed to snatch up one, force his weight onto his bruised shoulder via his arm, then straddle his stomach to conquer him.   
  
Dazed Prussian eyes stared up at him, shocked, as he found his body bruised and immobile under Duo's weight.  
  
"Tell me," Duo commanded between loud breaths, accentuating the words with raised eyebrows, "where we're _going_."  
  
_Before I lose control and take you to bed_, Duo added discreetly in his mind.  
  
Dumbstruck, the Wing pilot glanced his eyes up to Trowa, cheeks tinged red. When the other pilot only grinned at his expression and lack of options in this situation, he jerked his head back to face Duo. At first, his lips opened and shut mechanically, unable to get any words out, and finally he pinched them shut. Violet eyes searched his face expectantly as Heero gathered what moisture was left in his mouth to speak.  
  
"Uh…"  
  
An evil grin graced Duo's face as he lifted up the wrist he had viciously tweaked in his hand. He knew for a fact that Heero hated to strain his wrists, it intruded upon his typing ability, and was taking full, nearly malicious advantage of that. He twisted it slightly, counting down torturously.  
  
"One… two… three…"  
  
"Okay!" Heero shouted, in fear of his wrist. He let his head fall limply to the floor in defeat, the mocking, dreary white ceiling sneering in his eyes. "…We're going to Cancun."  
  
Duo stared at him, slack-jawed. Like a drunkard who had just been told he had a village of lawn gnomes living in his stomach, he slowly dropped the captive wrist, and then exploded. He leaped off Heero's prone form and ran over to Trowa, laughing loudly, "No way! We're going to Cancun! _Cancun_ !" and throwing his arms around the amused Trowa, who was watching Heero lie on the floor.   
  
The American continued to thrash Trowa around by the shoulders in happiness, voicing his pleasure in rambling spurts of words that echoed through the shell of the entire house and even perked the attention of the squirrels scampering out in the slush outside. It definitely quirked a confused look out of Quatre, who stood in the archway after successfully changing the secret location of the paintings. He stared at the ecstatic Duo draping himself all over Trowa, then down at the fallen Wing pilot.   
  
Heero dazedly stared up at the ceiling, his ego splattered like tragic blood stains all over his reputation. And Trowa snorted, sipping at Heero's coffee.   
  
"Shit…" he said breathlessly. "He does like to interrogate."  
  
  
  
In the neglected dusty darkness of the room, the faint glow of illumination streaming in like an invading light blitzkrieg was completely alien. Fingers appeared from past the wooden door and groped along the cold, painted wall until they happened upon the light switch and flicked it on. The bowl-shaped incandescent lights overhead sparked and buzzed to life, spitting warm, oddly cozy grayish light over the dark green surroundings, thrusting the concept of life onto the vacant room abruptly. As the wooden door swung open, the murmur of low male voices flooded in as well.   
  
Duo's head swung in curiously, violet eyes soaking in the dark green room slowly, every corner and angle jumping at him as his new reality. His new room. The American paused in the doorway, numbly letting the wooden door swing open and tap against the wall, and licked his dry lips and stood frozen, taking in the sight, until the strap of his backpack chewed into his shoulder. He winced and slipped it off his shoulder, swinging it in his hand as he trotted down the two cement stairs leading down to the shag-carpeted floor. He let it drop gently to the floor and thoroughly tested the carpet by combing his bare toes through it.   
  
The entire room was dark, emerald green, something suspiciously reminiscent of Trowa's eyes and if he hadn't known better, Duo would have gambled on Quatre having a say in the paint color. It was the remolded, room-incarnation of the garage, a souvenir of the previous owners he'd been told. The basic shape of it was a fat rectangle, with two closet doors on the far wall. In the far right corner, only a foot or so away, seemingly suctioned to the wall, was a large, black-blanketed twin sized bed, more than ample for Duo's lean body. Just off to the side was the automatic bedside table, scattered with bits of lint and wrinkled papers and even the dull plastic glint of old dusty CD cases.   
  
In the far left corner, the American twitched in amazement at the sight of an old, coal-black wood burning stove squatting noiselessly, hatch swung open with the black and gray-etched ashes stirring as a slight wind tailed him into the room. Duo hummed to himself, titling his head to the side as he continued his survey of his new territory. There was even another curiosity to surprise him; a faded rubber tire swing hung from the ceiling on the other end of the room, near the window covered with blackout curtains where the garage door would have opened up. He stared, spiky bangs hanging in his eyes, and then shrugged, settling with the odd fact that it was there.  
  
He smirked slightly to himself, finding the otherwise empty green room satisfactory… After a few homey personal touches, it'd be fine. Good, even maybe.  
  
Sudden dark colored movement behind him caused his heart to speed and head whip around in alarm. Duo's long braid whipped forward over his shoulder, then unfurled like a brown silk snake down his chest as he paused and smiled. "Oh, hey Heero."  
  
The Japanese man stood in the doorway, the starchy artificial light casting sharp shadow relief on his pale skin, and stared at Duo in the center of the pine green room, like some alien just washed up on shore. A sunny grin welcomed him. "Hi," he said, monotone seething in his voice. "Found your room, huh?"  
  
"It's nice," Duo replied, finding no humor in his brain to spice up the mundane response. Normally, he would have pointed something interesting out in the room and asked his friend about it but Heero himself was the object of interest of the moment. On his shoulders was a simple black shirt, hugging to his biceps and lounging low around his neck. Changing out of his work clothes, he now had his accustomed, Levi blue jeans on, as if to drive a stake of psychosis into Duo just for fun, sucking his mouth dry of all moisture. Before he let something stupid roll off his lip, Duo jerked his eyes straight up to Heero's face to sober him up, although it was just as maddening. He flinched instantly.   
  
Oh God. There was a bruise.   
  
"Heero…"  
  
Prussian eyes focused on the heart-shaped confusedly, noticed he was staring at his forehead, then he lifted his hand to his skin just to be sure it wasn't a just a zit or something. When he felt a tiny spark of pain, he realized it must have been where he'd caught Duo's elbow in the head. Minor bruise. He'd spotted it in the mirror as he changed clothes minutes previous. "It's nothing," he said.   
  
Duo's face still rang with painful apology. "You sure? I mean, I didn't think I hurt you or anything. Damn it, I'm sorry…"  
  
Heero split the thick atmosphere with a toned-down, Duo-esque grin. "We could have thrashed each other if we really wanted to. It's nothing," he stressed. The Japanese pilot tapped at the bruise. "See. Doesn't hurt."  
  
"Hm." Duo's eyes flashed at him, a grin finally escaping him and covering the hurt. "You lie like crap, you know that, Yuy?"  
  
"No," he lied.  
  
"I feel guilty now, Heero!" he said intensely, violet eyes piercing as they followed Heero's movement. The other pilot trotted causally down the stairs with hands pocketed, coming closer to talk. He flinched suddenly as the American reached up tentatively and gingerly touched the small black-and-blue blemish on his forehead, just below his hairline. He remembered to breath suddenly. "How you going to cover that up for the wedding ceremony, huh? Foundation?"  
  
Heero reached up and gripped his wrist, guiding his fingers away from the bruise and out of his bangs. "You'd love to make me say that I would."  
  
"Hm, yeah," Duo said happily with a flush, although the gesture spiked a little dejection into his stomach. "Heero in makeup. Flawless blackmail." Even as the dazzling, unconquerable grin flashed on Duo's face, his eyes remained as rueful as ever. And Heero noticed.   
  
"You can make it up to me if you call Wufei and break the news of your arrival," he proposed flatly, hands releasing Duo's warm skin to drop at his side. He watched the flickering emotions and thoughts running briefly past his friend's slightly dilated pupils like a forbidden slide show, and then a sly smirk grasped his face.   
  
In a deep, mock-breathy voice, Duo cooed, "Could I… prank him?" He even punctuated the joke with a shy, curious finger to his lip.   
  
This brought a smile to even Heero's stoic face and, with one eyebrow furrowing over his eye, he tilted his lips. Heero shrugged finally. "Fire at will," came the faint mutter, with a smile and a shake of his disheveled brown head. The green room filled with the dynamic sound of movement as Duo flung his ragged black backpack onto the bedspread, wrinkling it, whooped, then raced past Heero up the steps in bare feet.   
  
"Point me to the phone. Chang's going down!"  
  
  
  
[To 27 reviews to continue please!]  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 4 Preview  
  
A.C. 205: Wufei gets a little ringing surprise, Duo gets a tour into the locations of all his best wet dreams, yaoi and video, and money and clothes coming off more than once; all of it behind Relena's back. ^_-!  
  
(Sorry about being so late!! I didn't want to post on Easter Sunday. I'm still sick from Thursday. It got kind of crappy at the end and the part where you find out what he was painting I was going to include will be in part 5 instead. Review please~!)   
  



	4. Lascivious

Disclaimer: Don't sue. You'll receive an infestation of very cranky ladybugs, my illegally downloaded mp3s, and for one day only, you'll receive my vocal cords which can be used for 100% accurate goat, cat, pigeon, and duck imitations, a -$5.00 value for free! Call now! [Sorry, we do not accept Visa or MasterCard or credit cards or money of any sort.]  
  
  
  
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 2+1, 9x13, 1x2x1  
  
  
  
Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.  
  
  
  
Chapter 4  
  
"Lascivious"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Duo, wait."  
  
The American stopped like every cartoon Heero'd ever seen in his rare moments of childish pursuits, momentum still traveling forward through his body, and jerkily gained back his balance on the red and peach Oriental rug before he slipped and crashed to the floor. In a brown whiplash blur, his four-foot braid belted around like a chain, capable of probably taking out seven or eight consecutive lamps with a single blow. It amused Heero that he'd been told many times by his doctor that he looked too naïve, too young, and too innocent on the outside to be what he had been, a previously inhuman and malicious Gundam pilot, but little Duo could use his hair as a weapon. Heero couldn't help but giggle to himself about it, something Duo instantly picked up. He still wasn't accustomed to the sound of his laughter, though Heero didn't understand the reasoning why. He turned, staring curiously at the Japanese man for interrupting so strangely.   
  
"Yeah, Hee-chan?"  
  
"Duo, you don't know where the phone is," he stated with all sarcastic sympathy, clapping his hand on his shoulder where his neck met. His thin, smug, toothless smile flashed in his face, infuriating in its simple, flawless self-righteousness. Almost. Otherwise Duo approved it of being nothing short of dazzling.  
  
"I would have found it... eventually." Duo's grin faced off against the slight of teeth on Heero's face, with absolute bravado. "Policeman Yuy need not tote me around like some young babe."  
  
Heero snorted abruptly, thick eyebrows furrowing over his eyes. The expression melted into a giggle that seemed to occupy every atom of the room, most of all Duo's hearing, and quickly reddened the American's face. Cocking his lip to the side crossly, he folded his arms with a slap, glaring almost downward at the brown-framed Asian face laughing at him.  
  
He cocked one eyebrow to parry Heero's and asked in a clipped voice, "You wanna fight or something? You're asking for it, Mister Policeman."  
  
  
  
He drummed his fingers very clearly on his arm, violet eyes sighted only on Heero's amused face. Finally, the laughter died down and Heero finished by rubbing his nose, choosing to brush off the previous comments with another thin little grin.  
  
Duo blinked in confusion as the Japanese man threw his arm around his shoulder in a very un-Heero way, slapping his unclothed shoulder like he was a inducting new fraternity pledge and ready to crack the fizzing tab of a beer and hand it to his wingman. His eyes instantly went to the carved profile beside him, twisting his face into an obvious look of confusion. "What?" Duo asked, as he was led toward the stairs, skimming around the rim of the furnished hollow in the den floor and stepping through warm yellow sunspots cast by the windows.  
  
"What? Heero-" Duo jabbed his elbow into his comrade's rib, trying not to laugh away his seamless frown. "-What are you laughing at? What?"  
  
Heero tilted his head back. "...Hmm, betsu ni."  
  
"Chh. Bestu ni my ass."  
  
Frown. Elbow jab. Puppy frown again. But still no success. It was fully maddening to realize that Duo Maxwell's polished, almost political retaliation methods were useless as yelling at a deaf horse to giddy up when dealing with Heero. That was the downside to being the personality kryptonite immune to the soldier's glares and hostility-Heero was his own, too. Every little annoying quirk he'd salvaged up during childhood to help survive by making the other orphaned street rats respond to him, like him, help him, were useless against Heero.  
  
"It means 'Nothing,'" he explained. Heero's voice reverted to his established bass monotone, seemingly inches from Duo's ear and booming in all his senses. In apparent amusement, he brotherly slapped Duo again on his bicep and withdrew his arm from around his shoulders.  
  
Duo flashed a glare at him from the side, scoffing in a sharper, clipped tone. "I know what it meant!"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"It means 'a pain in the ass' in Duo-nese," he commented brashly.  
  
Heero kicked him in the leg, nudging his shoulder as well. "Up the stairs," he said, humor ghosting through. He distantly watched as the American obliged, putting a hand on the lacquered banister, and trekked up, the tattered edges of his blue jeans hanging around his heel. As he walked his braid would often slap the back of his legs, ragged tip dangling in the back of his knee. The Japanese man imagined that it must drive him nuts but the American did nothing about it. He shrugged vaguely in his brain, and then trotted up after him.  
  
  
  
[---]  
  
  
  
Heat clung to the back of her neck, drawing her long blonde hair to her skin almost magnetically, while the sudden hot wind caught her leg as she stuck it out of her black limousine. Outside the starkly air-conditioned confinement of her new automobile, the sky was a thick blue and blocked by the crowding heads of paparazzi, eagerly cramming around the narrow, roped off runway to the hotel. As soon as she saw them, Relena winced mentally, but knew that dropping a cultured expression was mutiny to the presses. Former royalty and highly publicized politicians weren't allowed to be anything but scholarly to the cameras. No sour words, no obscenely misplaced hair, no overly applied makeup, and definitely no frowning. It was a shame, though, because after what she just had survived through, giving a few of them a good bitch slap might feel than eating Turkish delights right then.  
  
From behind her, she felt the subtle brush of starched suit fabric against her exposed arm and shoulder-her publicist Sam, equally distressed by the unfamiliar Indian humidity and flinching under the sudden barrage of cameras. On edge, obviously.  
  
His hand clenched on the leather armrest between them as he was poised to follow her out, let her walk a few feet ahead, then quickly confront and batter back the shark pool that was the hungry New Delhi press, tracking them all the way from India. Bitterness was boiling in his chest and he wasn't going to let a single damned metal microphone even think about swinging toward Relena's mouth, not after this incident.  
  
The sludge of heat and tension hovered over the world for that second, as the thin blonde's foot neared the white sidewalk, and paused. Then the shoe hit the pavement and the sky above her erupted in multiple, almost frenzied sparks of light-the ceremonial picture taking.  
  
The only thing surpassing his bitter anger over the entire mortifying experience of the last was the plummeting anxiety that came from knowing the weight of making her look better and rebuffing her image was going to burdened onto him. His angular Italian-French face was deep set in stress and she could see it, glancing almost icily back at him once before she stepped out.  
  
Voices. Calling. Many had thick Arabic or Indian accents; a few calling over the din sounded vaguely American and familiar. All around her people bellowed out to her, jabbing their metallic, intrusive lenses towards her, which she fended off with a hand raised to the side of her face. Acid white light bulb flashes came from every side and lit her pale face, discolored slightly under the cover-up around her left eye and temple, and immortalized the bruise in film. A sort of seething resentment returned to her senses again, something she'd dealt with less and less grace over the years, over the course of a decade surviving as an extremely prominent political figure. It was the paparazzi backlash that few in the spotlight couldn't help but feel sometimes.  
  
She growled to herself in the roaring din, as she powered down the narrow carpeted strip with her bodyguards storming ahead, that she should have paid more attention in her self-defense classes instead of at a specific instructor of hers, otherwise this absolutely degrading situation might not have come about... Anger broiled in her thoughts and her teeth were tightly clenched against the world behind polite pink lips. This was so... argh!  
  
"Miss Relena!"-"Which one was it?"-"Miss Relena, do you have any comments for the Pakistani officials? Miss!"  
  
Demanding, leeching words bounced off her cold ears as she forced herself to adapt more of her fiancé's observed mannerisms, absorbed second-hand. Relena wanted to mimic the stone-faced Heero Yuy she had seen in the war and use his old abrasiveness to help her fend off the media. She allowed herself the mandatory frightened hand to the nearest, most boorish of the cameramen, knowing that it was something they expected from most celebrities, even political ones, especially after being shaken up. At that thought, she realized with a tiny sink in her angry, fluttery stomach that just a hand to the lens was like tossing pepples at a pride of starved lions. It wasn't going to be very much use.  
  
The roar of the multiple accented voices had increased what seemed ten-fold when she had stepped out, all grappling verbally for her attention. They were hungry lions, definitely, Relena thought bitterly, as she was jolted in the shoulder when one of her burly security guards spotted a cameraman he apparently didn't like and stormed past her to deal with him. She would have instinctively straightened out her thick shirt strap, but the metallic white glare and pops of the cameras were only a few inches from her, and the media could twist any awkward picture to embarrass her.  
  
Damn it, how long does this walkway go? Relena cursed in her mind, the only safe place for her opinions.  
  
Most distinctive in the loud, clamoring din was Sam's familiar voice, hurriedly and radically dealing with all the notebook-toting reporters who questioned him in the wake of her brushing them off. As she was escorted down the walkway, quickly approaching the glass hotel doors, she smiled inwardly to herself, though barely noticeable on the outside. There was a forceful exchange of words, then Relena heard him blowing them off with a polite answer, something along the lines of 'No comment' or 'We'll be taking questions later' and thought she didn't' thank him quite enough for all that he did for her... In others, though, she was quite sure he knew she was thankful.  
  
Relena was about ready to drop to her knees and pray when the bellhops finally opened the hotel doors and she stepped into the air-conditioned lobby, a path cleared in the dim lighting straight for the elevator that would take her to the suite on the top floor. "Thank God," she uttered, not caring if her faceless bodyguards heard her. She began to jog for it, just desperate enough to want to lie down and sleep, and quickly laced her arm around Sam's elbow as he trotted up beside her.  
  
Relena glanced up at him sideways as they clamored into the elevator, irritably hooking her blonde hair behind her ear. "Remind me why we don't just nuke this place."  
  
Sam chuckled as the doors squeezed shut. "You wouldn't want your hubby to croak trying to come to the rescue just yet."  
  
"...Damn right," she muttered, straightening out her skirt with her free arm.  
  
  
  
[---]  
  
  
  
Four long, callused fingers and a hitchhiker thumb gripped around the doorknob of the last room to be explored, and the mahogany door was noiselessly opened out of curiosity, as carefully as if he was searching for the last of a species of extremely skittish birds. Duo peeked into the final second level room, braid sliding off his shoulder and undulating at his hip. The carroty 10:00 morning light barely sifted up through the rafters so it was too dark to see clearly. The American causally ran the pads of his fingers along the wall in his search for the light switch. After two consecutive sweeps along the wall, Duo growled in frustration and was about to ask where the hell the lights were in Heero's house when his comrade snorted in amusement, inches behind his head. Duo flickered his eyes backward, confusion blooming as Heero raised his hands and clapped them sharply next to his ear, dripping with smugness.  
  
Duo's head whirled around again as the room instantaneously was lit, revealing the faintly Victorian decor of deep blood red and black trimmings. It was a simplistic room, with the only deviation from being a simple, airy square room a spruce-draped porch scattered with plump little pinecones. It faced the thick, dark green menagerie of trees blanketing the hillsides, shadowing out the sunlight. The dew-splattered glass doors were half concealed by thick, velvety Victorian red drapes that spilled out onto the floor. The walls were a darker shade of that seductive red and offset by a large, downy jet-black bed with tall canopy of dark, silk-thin fabric flowing down the sides in the corner. Besides the fundamental, mahogany-wood furniture pieces like a dresser and bed stand, the ruby-carpeted room was immaculately free of clutter.  
  
Romantic... kinda, Duo thought while scratching at the light, scratchy stubble on his chin, not something I'd expect from Heero's bedroom. And no laptop, I see. Now, that really offsets me. Here I am, in the place I never thought I'd be, the Perfect Soldiers actual, factual, decorated bedroom, but no annoying computer to distract him from me. Man... He really is different.  
  
"Wow, Heero. I never thought you'd live so... gothic. A little on the kinky side, if you ask me," Duo commented, smiling almost obscenely at the innuendo he'd cooked up. He snapped. "But, hey, I like it and it suits you. This is yours, right?"  
  
  
  
Heero was hovering in the doorway, scratching an itch on his collarbone absently. "Yeah. Glad you like it," he grunted dully, kicking off his polished brown loafers so they connected with the bed stand with a thud and laid in a pile. Judging from the slobbish display of domicile comfort, Duo knew that he must have spent a substantial chunk of time in here. The immaculate, steel-trapped-mind of Heero Yuy would have to be pretty fucking comfy in a room to literally kick his shoes off randomly when during his war and teenage years he always put them precisely three inches from the side of the bed he was sleeping in. It also practically dripped with his smell reminiscent of gunpowder. That was a hint, too.  
  
Duo secretively sucked in another deep breath... and seconds later his face snarled up sourly, luckily facing away from Heero. Another smell mingled in with the gunpowder and generic shampoo smell that he had associated with him for years, and in his opinion, defiled it. A spike of anger and unadulterated jealously spiked in his stomach. He wasn't afraid to admit it to himself. He was suddenly ragingly jealous... he could smell the haughty, almost hideously sweet perfume that could only possibly be courtesy of his best friend's fiancé, Relena.  
  
An image of blonde hair and imploring, obsessed whines flickered in his brain until a low sound snapped him out of it.  
  
"Duo."  
  
"What?" The American flinched, his nerves still edged from the inerasable memories of war and an urchin childhood. Turning slightly calmer, two Prussian eyes were staring at him, flat and as Heero as ever.  
  
"Phone?" Heero reminded him flatly and lifted a masculine eyebrow. "It's by the closet, on the wall." The Japanese man shrugged it off, and sauntered around the bed.  
  
Nervous grins were a bitch, Duo thought, as one flashed across his face faster than his old Deathscythe with freshly jacked boosters. "Right."  
  
He clapped his hands and rubbed them conspiringly as he trotted over to the digital console that glittered as hints of buttery orange sunlight filtered through the thick, green carpet of Norwegian spruces and white pines and oaks surrounding the glass doors. A mischievous glint caught in his eyes, and even Heero was surprised to see an impish limp pucker as the American lifted the phone from the socket with a click and licked his lips in anticipation. Skinny fingers fluttered at the glowing rubber digits and Duo grinned as he cradled speaker against his neck, shoving his braid off his shoulder. Suddenly, he clenched something on the console and the hatch to the control panel lifted up with a furtive click.  
  
Heero stopped peeling the socks off his feet and stared. While leaning against his ridiculously fluffy and feather-packed covers and pillow that he'd obsessed over during his depression days, he had decided to walk barefoot and had stuffed a sock in the drawer. Now Heero had froze, war-scarred mind curious as to what his comrade was doing. It was inbred in him to be at least a little suspicious. Prussian eyes locked curiously on Duo's profile as the other man squinted, focusing acutely, and bit his tongue, a snippet of pink peeking out the side of his mouth. Heero, engorged with curious, twitched when he saw that, and accidentally jerked his foot. Something hitting his bare ankle brought his eyes down.  
  
A cardboard box ripped at the edges, sitting on the floor. The object was poking into his foot, hidden under the bed all but a corner. Heero instantly recognized the faint menagerie of slabs of dried paint chipped along the side, with a widening of his marbled-blue eyes. His box of paintings. Quatre had hidden them.  
  
Lopped out the side were some of the unfinished paintings. The pasty tope-colored papers were dashed with tiny pencil lines that swerved together to mark shadow and light on the figures themselves. Half of them were partially painted; they were half-hour bursts of insecurity or inspiration that had bred a need for painting. Underneath the rough drafts of half-forgotten images were his secretly dubbed 'masterpieces', the most personal and candid, undisguised thoughts he'd ever put into tangible existence. In a warped way, his children. Born of insecurity and depression. Heero caught a glimpse of his favorite, and for a spilt second, a smile ghosted across his face.  
  
Heero nudged his sacred, paint-splattered box safely under the bed and glanced back over his shoulder to the slim brunette lounging cattily against the wall, fiddling devilishly with the cord that connect the old-fashioned speaker. Violet eyes focused on Heero's face for a second and smiled at him with their old Shinigami spirit shining before he stylishly snapped the control panel shut. He'd done something, Heero knew, and was just opening his mouth to sourly inquire what, when the American picked up on it and brought his index finger sharply to his lips, grinning as naughtily as ever.  
  
The Japanese man snorted, but his dark blue eyes never wavered, hand still stuffed with a crumpled sock. He grudgingly held his mouth shut and silent. He knew he could definitely trust Duo, even when he swore his horns were poking out off his bangs.  
  
A faint, computerized trill came from the phone, and Duo twirled around with the coiled phone line wrapping around his shoulders and leaned against the wall. Heero cocked an eyebrow and listened. A mechanical click... then a warm perfunctorily scripted secretary voice.  
  
"Hello, Preventers' office."  
  
Duo's lopsided grin broadened and he flickered his eyes from Heero's to the screen, indicating him to look. Where there normally would have been an electronic, blue-tinted image of the other person was an intentional 'no image' screen of black. The American lifted his mouth from the speaker cradled between his neck and shoulder and imperially cleared his throat, adapting his old notorious theatrics that he'd used to slowly grind a sense for humor into Heero. The smile was inexpressibly wide now and inflicted a little yellow glow on Heero's face.  
  
"Hello?" the young woman repeated on the other line. "Hello?"  
  
"Oh, hello, sorry 'bout that!" Duo answered, jolting Heero when he used some sort of jumbled accent and disguised his voice. A drawling, sort of brainless tone suggestive of Americans from the Deep South melded flawlessly into his baritone voice like Shinigami into its precious dark. "These new-fangled phones still catch me off guard once and a while. Heh, yah know?"  
  
"What can I do for you, sir?"  
  
"Hm, Preventers, right?" Duo melodramatically scratched at his stubbled chin and squinted one of his eyes shut just to ham the performance up.  
  
Although, the Japanese man thought, it did help with the accent.  
  
The secretary's voice echoed through the dark red room as she sighed, voice tinged with tired aggravation, "Yes, sir, this is the Preventers' office. Is there anyone you were trying to reach in particular?"  
  
"Yep, madam, I need the office of... guldurnit, I can't remember now," Duo growled crossly. Lanky fingers dug roughly into his skin. His eyes narrowed, feigning irritation, and his clear forehead and chin scrunched up as he scanned furiously over the floor for a nameless item. The American lithely hunkered down onto his toned haunches and dug through the pile of miscellaneous scrap papers stuffed in the nearby wastebasket with a displeased little huff. "Some 'ching chang ling pang dang' name I'm supposed to 'member for me security com'any, but by horse buckets! -Can I put those damned Or-ry-ental names through me skull? Damned if I could! Damned if I could!"  
  
Heero stifled a laugh.  
  
"Sir-"  
  
The American suddenly let out a triumphant gasp reminiscent of a jubilant schoolboy with a Southern drawl as he snatched a random crumpled printout from the wastebasket, shaking it viciously with a blatant crackle into the speaker. The very essence of it was ridiculous, but the way Duo's eyes lit up in the lighting of the dim red room made it so that the single member of the audience was buying every hammed-up second of it and fighting off the dull ache in his stomach.  
  
Duo let off the most flamboyant, most obnoxious sounding off-key "yee-haw" shriek that his body could muster without waking the dead, nudging the phone intentionally closer to burst as many blood vessels in the poor woman's ear as possible. And they were snapping.  
  
"I found it! Crappin' flies in me ramen noodles, Missy, I found it!"  
  
Fighting a moan of auditory pain/absolute revulsion, the secretary fumbled audibly with the phone. The snippets of office noises, ones Heero was rather acquainted with, sifted through behind her voice. Distant chirps of cell phones, pens clicking, papers ruffling like leaves remotely, courteous female voices answering calls. Heero managed to smoother another chuckle by turning his head slightly and covering his mouth.  
  
"Ugh... uh, yes sir? Who is it?"  
  
"Chang Wufei," Duo chirped proudly, locking his free arm akimbo against his hipbone and crackling the disheveled paper. His lips slighted upward, and he began to singsong ridiculously, bopping up and down on the balls of his feet to lay it on thick. "Ch-Ch-Chaaaang Wuffers!"  
  
"Okay, sir... that's quiet enough." The American was fully pissing this poor woman off. She stuffily cleared her throat, and continued as serenely as her bleeding ears would allow.  
  
"And may I ask who's calling?"  
  
"Tell 'im," Duo said, ravishing every word like Turkish delights melting on his tongue, "it's the Maxwell asshole calling."  
  
Heero stifled a burst of laugher, the secretary coughed, and Duo grinned. "Got dat?" he emphasized, waving a finger at the blank, blackened screen glittering in the sunlight. "The. Max-well. Ass-hole."  
  
Visible snickers were boiling up to dangerous levels in Heero's American friend's throat.  
  
"Are-are you sure that's what you want to send to Mr. Chang?" the secretary asked. The polish on her professionalism was chipping off.  
  
"Mr. Chang will know exactly who I am, so don't worry. And thank you, Ma'am. I've really enjoyed your time," Duo cooed with utmost chivalrous courtesy in his normal voice, edged with a seductive tenor during his smooth finish. "Have a great day."  
  
"Uh... right away sir."  
  
The line droned off as he was transferred and a vivacious light of conquest flashed in Duo's eyes as the buzzing continued. The devilish grin returned, as slinky as it ever was, and for an instant the memory of the fifteen-year-old Duo Maxwell stood there, face lit from the opposite side from the motorized flare he held in his right hand, gun clasped faithfully in the other. Heero could see it replaying as flawlessly as if he were witnessing it on a movie screen. The acid throb of his muscles straining around the lodged bullet and graze wound, the blur of choppy violet-blue water under him, the defensive bark Duo had let out, the furious crack of the gun as the white flare faded. The memories were dimmed, but still there. That might make a good silhouette painting, he mused vaguely, as his attention refocused on the present, a decade separated from his memories.  
  
Duo's agile fingers again had flicked the control panel open and descended on the assorted switches and buttons. He paused and rested his index finger on one in particular; the image control, currently shut off. In preparation, he brushed his fingers through his bangs, hooking stray locks of hair behind his ear. Again the American cleared his throat and took a deep breath as Wufei answered and impatiently snatched up the phone. Heero could see the violet eyes flickering, a character breeding behind them.  
  
What now? Heero thought, cynicism tinted with amusement. Or who, more like it.  
  
The click of Wufei's phone snapped off Heero's short train of thought and he stared intently at the side of Duo's face. The slinky grin spread across his face demonically, fed by the flames of an imp's revenge. And even scarier, the soldier noted, was that it didn't show any signs of ever leaving, either.  
  
"Hello?" Wufei recited flatly into the phone. He paused audibly, and then edged his voice with caution as he continued. "Maxwell?"  
  
The American had apparently vanished, and in his place, with the finesse of a brilliant old-fashioned actor, stood someone seemingly decades older. Hooking stray bangs behind his ear, Duo grandly cleared his throat and produced an old, chivalrous British-sounding businessman from his vocal cords. Had he been a man Heero saw at a business conference with that voice, he probably could have smiled and socialized his way into buying empires without so much as breaking a sweat.  
  
"Sorry, Mr. Chang, but I am calling on behalf of your old friend, since he's incapable of making the call himself," Duo explained, voice melding into a soothing, almost melodic rhythm. His expression, however, was still as rascally as a smug Mother Goose fox raiding a noisy chicken coop, betraying the calm sound of his character voice. To clinch it, he threw in a short chuckle. "I apologize again, my good man, for the harm I must have caused to your dear secretary. I'd like to say in my defense that Mr. Maxwell requested that we specifically prank your secretary."  
  
"Oh, really," Wufei said from the empty, black screen. "I would suspect some clever trick from him. Why did he ask that you make the call for him, mister...uh...?"  
  
The grin slighted larger and Duo's finger toyed with the stray locks on his neck from his insanely long braid.  
  
"Buckingheimer, Albert Buckingheimer," Duo replied without missing a beat. "I'm your old friend's lawyer."  
  
"Hm. I'm surprised. I didn't think Maxwell would ever get himself a lawyer, Mr. Buckingheirmer," the Asian man mused, noticeably tapping a pen in the milieu.  
  
Heero was still riveted with the performance as a minute flash of skin moving pulled his attention to the American's thin, work-toughened hands slyly running along the rubber buttons of the control panel. He laughed demurely while his grin turned devious, unbeknownst to the poor, hoodwinked Wufei.  
  
"Well..." Duo paused professionally, smiling down at the switch where his finger lay in hungry waiting. "I also knew Mr. Maxwell very well, and it even perplexed me why such a young little spitfire wasn't out seducing girls instead of signing papers in my office."  
  
Amazingly, he'd managed to draw an elusive, sinuous laugh out of the Chinese pilot. It was one of the few times he'd ever heard him even chuckle.  
  
"That would be Maxwell," Wufei said, and incredibly, with a nostalgic tone. "So, Mr. Buckingheimer, what business does Duo have for me that he couldn't do himself?"  
  
"Business?" Duo said in mild surprise, chuckling. "Why, my good man, Mr. Maxwell doesn't have any business for you. He died two weeks ago and I'm here carrying out the wishes of his last will and testament."  
  
Heero dropped his sock.  
  
Laughing congenially again, it smothered the stunned silence buzzing back over the line. Duo's finger circled the video switch, itching hungrily at it. He swooped in for the kill, cradling the speaker against his neck arrogantly. "He's probably hole-pocked worm food by now... business... ha ha ... that's a good one!" His voice never leaked an ounce of its British bred charm, remaining as poised as ever. Heero now knew the exact cause of his devilish grin, and he had to say, it was really quite witty.  
  
Wufei vocally gaped, and if it were physically possible, he would have heard his jaw smack his desk.  
  
"...How... how did Duo die?"  
  
Solemnity seeped slowly into Duo's fashioned voice, like rain seeping into the frozen ground, as he answered slowly, cautiously, sadly. He even adopted a grave, darkened look of a black-veiled mourner.  
  
"It was... very tragic, to say the least... there were dog biscuits scattered everywhere. I arrived at Mr. Maxwell's apartment a few hours after the police had contacted me and they informed me that he had died during..." Duo huffed a dramatic, pained breath, sharply turning his face in a masculine but anguished manner envied by any soap star. He stifled an artificial sob. "...He had... he had died... fucking a dog."   
  
Sniffle, sniffle, sigh. Game, set, match.  
  
Duo could almost hear the furious nosebleed ensuing. Like a child throwing the light switch at a darkened surprise birthday party, the American snapped the video switch to on, causing the glittery darkened screen to hiss and pop fiercely two times before the image of a dumbfounded Wufei came on. The Chinese pilot looked really good, he noted, in a dark suit coupled with a dark tie typical of the Preventers and his shoulder-length jet-black hair tied back in a high samurai-reminiscent ponytail and stray black strands floating over his almond shaped eyes. Duo smiled impudently at the screen, at the shocked obsidian-colored eyes staring at him in a numbed state then flashing fury over a fiery river of blush, and proceeded to 'laugh his balls off.'  
  
"M-M-Maxwell!" Wufei roared, slamming his fist. Pens rattled and fell, casualties, to gleaming polish of his desk. His dark eyes were furious at the American as he began to half-shriek in his laugh, staggering into the wall because he ached so. "You...you asshole!"  
  
Heero smiled, rolling his eyes warmly, as Duo answered, between gasps for breath.  
  
"That's my name! ...Oh my GOD, you SO should have seen your face, Wufei! Ha ha HA! You're as fucking red as a cherry! Your nose is bleeding! Your nose is bleeding!"  
  
The American dropped the receiver limply, letting it swing on the curled wire and smack the wall with an irreverent plastic thud. His face was flushing red from laughter. Not as red as Wufei was, though, after being plagued with images of his comrade's fabricated last moments.  
  
"It is not, Maxwell!" he snapped, clamping his hand over his nose. The gothic red serenity of Heero's bedroom soon rang with the harsh gnashing of various Chinese curses, most of which the Japanese pilot understood as clear as a bell.  
  
Duo hit the wall as he clamped his arms around his stomach and started to roll.  
  
  
  
[---]  
  
  
  
"Oh my god, Wufei, she's gorgeous," Duo said, awestruck as he brushed the screen with his fingers. His violet eyes shone over a proud grin, saturated with undistilled delight. "She looks just like you!"  
  
"No, she looks more like her mother," he said. The Chinese man flickered the glossy wallet photo to glance at it. "She's got Sally's smile and face."  
  
"But she's got your eyes," Duo declared happily. The American playfully pinched at Wufei's cheek on the screen. "Come on, admit it, she does! You don't have be embarrassed about it."  
  
"True, Maxwell," he murmured back, "she does." The dark-haired man leaned back against his blue cushioned office chair, smiling faintly to himself. His leather wallet was gutted on the polished desk surface; the scathed edges of old, worn pictures were poking out. His obsidian colored eyes flickered back to the American's face grinning at him from the blue-tinted videophone screen. "Worse of all," Wufei said, running his thumb over the picture of a skinny girl in a loose black dress laughing at the camera as the Chinese pilot wrapped his arms around her rail thin waist and lifted her up, tickling her with a warm grin. "...She somehow inherited your personality, Duo."  
  
"Hey," the American laughed, "lucky girl! What's her name?"  
  
"Meiran."  
  
"That's beautiful! Did you pick it out?"  
  
"Yeah, Meiran's a special name for me."  
  
"Oh really? Your mother?"  
  
"My first wife. She died when we were really young."  
  
"Oh, hey...I'm sorry." Duo scratched at the back of his head.  
  
"You have no reason to be," Wufei answered flatly.  
  
"Well, hey, do I get to see your beautiful little daughter soon? Hopefully, she's got some of her father's golden sense of justice in her!" Duo laughed as Wufei lifted his eyebrow and let a tiny smile float to the surface.  
  
"Oh shut up, Maxwell."  
  
"There you go again, giving me the cold shoulder again," he replied dramatically, feigning hurt, pressing the back of his hand against his spiky brown bangs.  
  
"She'll be coming to the wedding. Meiran's the flower girl."  
  
"Really?" Duo asked happily.  
  
Wufei clattered around in his collection of uselessly fancy fountain ink pens idly, brushing his fingers along the porcelain rim. His dark eyes skimmed around his polished desk, a little smile tugging at his mouth to escape. "You know, she really wants to meet you." Suddenly, his eyes flickered up to the American's face almost mischievously, a delicious little secret seething in his gaze. "Meiran calls you the Heidi-man because of your braid. She thinks you live in the mountains eating cottage cheese."  
  
"What?" Duo squeaked. In the background, the American heard Heero chuckle and his face twitched. With fingers gritted around the phone, he flashed a sassy glare back to the other pilot, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of his downy, black bed. He temporarily detached from his conversation with Wufei.  
  
"It's cruel to laugh at people, Hee-chan," he said, glaring. The imitation of his own blue-eyed glare was quite fierce, if would say so himself, but nothing compared to the hateful, bloodthirsty looks of an enemy soldier, which Heero had become quite immune to.  
  
"I'm not laughing," Heero said flatly, voice warbling on the pseudo-innocent side.  
  
Duo retorted with a splattering raspberry.  
  
The Preventer lifted his head slightly to look beyond the American's turned head. "Good to see you again, Heero," Wufei said.   
  
The Japanese pilot folded his steel-snapping arms and nodded slightly in response. "Wufei." His voice sunk back into its signature monotone drone. "So Sally is doing fine?"  
  
A slight smile crawled over the Chinese pilot's face. "The Preventer work is slow, but that's good news," he said. "Sally's doing well."  
  
"Hey, if I didn't know better," Duo drawled, peeping his eyes back and forth comically, "I'd say that you two were plotting to boot me out of this conversation!"  
  
"Is Duo ready for the wedding?" Wufei asked, purposely excluding the presence of the fuming American from his mind.  
  
"No, Duo needs his suit," Heero answered flatly.  
  
"Are you sure Duo can handle being the best man?"  
  
"If Duo can keep his large American mouth shut."  
  
"Ah, shut up!" the aforementioned snapped.  
  
"...No suit yet, huh? When are you going to get him fitted?" Wufei asked, focusing on Duo's blue-tinted, slightly razzed face.  
  
"Right now," Heero cut in, still complacent to lounge on his bed, like an omniscient professor controlling the revolution of the American's universe. "Rosy won't take unscheduled customers after lunch."  
  
"Well," the Chinese man said, voice suddenly dripping with amused complacency-the creepy kind, Duo thought, like some Dracula easily luring fresh, unknowing blood into his lair-and smiled at him. He snorted. "Have fun with your suit, Maxwell. I need to be going now anyway."  
  
The American unleashed a youthful grin as he repositioned his fingers around the receiver and prepared to hang up. "Alright, Wufei. Can't wait to meet you in Cancun."  
  
"It's really good to see you again, Duo. We've all missed you a lot," he said suddenly, surprising his friend.  
  
As if he was a slim, homegrown, small town South country girl parading up in a white sleek dress to accept the Miss America award, Duo's face contorted into a flattered, enthralled look brimming on the edge of happy tears, lip clamped down, eyebrows drawn upward, and violet eyes widening dramatically. A smile tore at the edges of his lips, fighting to break through. "You really mean it, Wuffers?" he asked. A squeaking pitch was thrown in as artistic fodder, like the masterful actor he was. Duo clamped both hands on the receiver, wedging it against his face, half-sniffling. "That's so nice of you! I didn't think you cared, after being so crusty and crotchety and callous and nasty to me!" He faked a happy sob and ran a finger across his high cheekbone and pretended to flick a tear away.  
  
"Alright, I understand, Maxwell." He smiled despite the annoyed, flat tone he put on as he reached up to his keyboard to turn it off. "I'll see you there."  
  
By now, Duo's tearful charade had blossomed into a roaring rendition of a happy Old Yeller tear-fest. He was babbling about how touched he was, to finally have a cantankerous bastard like Wufei finally say he cared about him even a little-complete with a flushing face, a hand rapidly fanning his neck, and incoherent little sobs that came textbook from every girl winning an award he'd ever seen. Thin brows drawn together, Duo began to quiver the receiver in his hands intentionally, trying to suck every moment he could out of the opportunity, even as a firm hand clamped on his shoulder, which had humped around his chin in a feminine fashion as he feigned happy tears like a satirical Monty Python moment.  
  
"Come on, Duo," Heero said in a parental tone, slowly pulling the psuedo-hysterical American away and prying the receiver from his face and clawing fingers. As soon as he had lost it, the actor tore at his braid around its moderately thick mid-section, flapping it dramatically and wiping his eyes, babbling vaguely something like 'I'm so relieved, you like me, you really like me!' as Heero spoke to the slightly amused Asian man on the other line. His arm shook and twitched out of the frame of the screen as he tried to restrain an over-exuberant man.  
  
"He's happy to see you, too."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Talk to you later, then."  
  
"Yeah. Goodbye, Yuy."  
  
And the Japanese man hung up, dragging his best man, sobbing like a half-wretched teenage pageant queen and waving to the blackened screen, behind him.  
  
  
  
[---]  
  
  
  
By late-morning, Heero would have never anticipated such a whirlwind of activity that he had had if someone had asked him this morning, when he crawled out of the fluffy black comforter looking like an unpleasant, disheveled derelict. First, the roving Angel of Death had meandered so fatefully into his pristine little police station on the only day he was ever in the reception area and could have very well wandered off again in true rolling stone fashion and disappeared possibly forever, with him oblivious to it all. And he had nearly bashed his teeth out. Then that longhaired, imp-grinned Angel of Death had, respectively, jumped him from his coat closet, eaten his food, tackled him, interrogated and threatened him, and then proceeded to terrorize his poor unsuspecting friend in an even more mischievous craze. Now, as chilly wind whistled along the sleek black exterior of his car and the engine purred and hummed beneath him faithfully, that Angel of Death was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat beside him, salivating and fondling the dark leather interior like a candy girl as they crept down the shadowed driveway toward the gate. Jaw lolling, sugarplums dancing in his brain, verbally purring, the American admired the car, free hand clawing anxiously down his braid curled over his shoulder like a kid locked inside an empty candy store. Not quite the violent, Shinigami antics he'd pulled during the war, slashing mobile suits like coma-prone bunnies, but still his characteristic little antics nonetheless. Glancing away under ruffled chocolate bangs, Heero concentrated on the imposing black gates creeping closer in the frosty windshield. A chunky green branch knocked uselessly at the side-view mirror and a few old, brittle pinecones scattered to the ground.  
  
"Buckle up," Heero said flatly, noticing that Duo had failed to do so when confronted by the idea he'd be inside a 'delicious' piece of black metal, as he had dubbed it.  
  
"Uhgh..."  
  
He was too busy dreaming of how he could jack up the engine.  
  
Inexplicably, Duo hadn't drooled yet on the carpet, seeming drifting out of his loving haze just long enough to civilly lap it up before it hit the leather seat. Violet eyes scanned around the polished silver metal trimmings as a hungry grin consumed his face, toothy and wide. The American let out a low whistle as he admired the very very American car and Heero causally reached up and flipped the gate switch, hidden behind the sun visor. Clanking loudly, they mechanically separated and, mischievously revving the engine, the Wing pilot tore out on to the gravel road, shrapnel hissing out angrily from the rubber tires as they spun for traction, knocking a certain loose brunette against the car door before his Shinigami, feline nerves could jolt free of the haze and react. Releasing an eep, two narrow eyes locked on Heero over a half-scowl.  
  
"Buckle up," Heero said flatly, reining in his smugness.  
  
A playful sneer was his reward. "Yeah, yeah," Duo said, snatching at the seat belt. He clipped it defiantly and grinned over to Heero, arching his lip as he did so. "Yes, Mother."  
  
Heero simply tilted his lips in a smile and turned his head, focusing on the snowy gravel road that would lead them into the city.  
  
[---]  
  
It was an ambitious shop stuck in a very modestly sized, brick-laden body, that was for sure, Duo thought, glancing out the passenger window curiously as the sleek black car glided out of traffic and into an open space just in front of their destination. Like, he mused as he mechanically unbuckled and let the belt lash into its appointed place with a whir, its soul was itching to break free of it's constraining body. Although he felt strange giving such a fully inanimate thing a personality, it seemed to fit. Something energetic and warm seemed to just draw at him and draw up a little smile simultaneously. Duo opened the door and quickly hopped out, his braid swinging weightily behind him from the sudden movement, and slammed it shut with a hand as he trotted up to follow Heero. The American's bright violet eyes trailed down to the right and left of the snow-mounded sidewalk, with the powder snow compacting beneath his foot with a dry crunch. It was mostly empty because of the time and weather in general but he still managed to catch a glimpse of a few, Eskimo-looking children waddling along the sidewalk and playfully shoving each other into the bank of snow.  
  
Heero opened the glass door and held it for Duo, who quickly turned back to the shop and leapt up the small steps and into the shop. Another wave of heat struck at his face and he grinned at Heero as he fell in step beside the Japanese pilot, hands snugly pocketed into his jacket. "Oh, a gentleman, too? What kind of terrorist are you becoming now?" Duo asked, as they traveled through the small lobby with slush-encrusted welcome mats underfoot and brilliantly lit gold Christmas tinsel strung overhead in graceful arches. His eyes flickered to Heero's hand turned pink from the cold gripping around the metal handle of the second glass door and pulling it back civilly for him.   
  
Heero paused for a moment, letting Duo walk ahead for a split-second, then took a liberty to slyly grin behind his back like he held the perfect hand of poker and follow the other pilot inside. "A better one," he said.  
  
He flipped his head back, innocent and unwary eyes nice and round, and barely got to open his mouth past a little 'o' to ask "Huh?" when a little blonde blur of woman, clicking heels, and groomed black dress seem to fly out of nowhere with such speed that when it peeled the very jacket off of his shoulders and expertly tossed it back into Heero's expectant arms, Duo didn't even know what had hit him. The American could only be swept along to the fierce and industrial tattoo of heels clicking behind him and the pressure of tiny hands on his back. A little honey sweet voice rang out behind him, in the proximity of the attacking black dress, and called out to his companion.   
  
"Finally, Heero. I didn't ever think you'd get this wedding started!"  
  
In the doorway still, unharmed by whatever was sweeping Duo like a stray newspaper strung along by the wind back toward the mirrored and richly decorated fitting area, Heero calmly unrumpled the pile of leather jacket and hooked it on a large brass hook curving off the wall next to his. The Japanese pilot glanced over to his friend momentarily with more a touch than amusement trying to escape his little smile, then addressed the little spitfire behind him.   
  
"Rosy, nice to see you again. Thanks for taking me unscheduled. I had no idea that Duo would be coming today," he said, gracefully nicking his boots against the rug and dislodging all the snow before he followed the two down a short, deep green and mahogany-trimmed hallway into a room lined with mirrors and clothing hung along the wall.   
  
"I'm sorry if I've inconvenienced you in anyway," he said, turning the corner and stopping in the doorway, dark Prussian eyes dancing between each of the two's images reflected on the series of tall mirrors. "But I needed to finish suiting first of all."  
  
"That's fine, Heero. It's no problem at all."  
  
"Hey, you could at least have warned me! Where's your common courtesy?" Duo snapped back to Heero as he was finally let relax and the little woman behind him who had been hurriedly escorting him clicked around in front of him, her attractive dark-amber eyes quickly examining him and scoping out the suit that she could see in her head sliding effortlessly onto Duo. She was a relatively short woman, with a clean, golden yellow head of hair floating around her shoulders. A tape measure of the exact same bright and cheery yellow color was draped around her neck like a seasonal scarf over the simple black dress and she held a precise looking clip board in her hand, the white paper scribbled with thousands of indiscriminate notes and figures.  
  
"Hello," Duo said, blinking innocently down at her. The American, although being thoroughly jolted by now, managed a warm smile for his company's sake and reached out his hand. "I don't think we've met, but you seem kind of familiar, miss. What's your name?"  
  
The hauntingly familiar amber-tinted hazel eyes seemed to offer some sort of warm and in depth greeting and explanation, but the face and the agenda did not hold that same offer. The little tailor woman pulled a smile out in return, but only pressed the clipboard beneath her arm and casually flipped her hair to the side as she reached around the unexpecting American in his jeans and dark blue tank-top to give him a little smack of encouragement. Which, of course, caused the longhaired man to let out a startled cheep and defensively arch his back and caused the Japanese pilot to smile almost mischievously behind him, unbeknownst.   
  
"Sith, honey. Rosy Sith. Now let's get going! There are only twenty-four hours in a day you know and I'd like to sleeping for a third of that!" the blonde woman said cunningly, but sweetly, as she swiftly struck again. This time, her meticulously manicured nails seized around the metal of the American's zipper and authoritatively, but still sweetly, yanked it down and once again caused him to yelp like a branded lamb. "Come on, let's see those cute boxers of yours." 


	5. Crazy For a Sharp Dressed Man

Disclaimer: Okay. You sue me, take away all my money, and I'll steal all your muffin mix. I swear! I'll do it, I'm crazy! ][ all your pastry belongs to us ][ this one's dedicated to everybody working hard at McDonald's. ^_-

Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 9x13, 1x2x1

Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.

Chapter 5

"Crazy For a Sharp-Dressed Man"

"You know, I'm feeling completely objectified here."

Rosy pinched Duo's lip shut with her manicured fingers. "I won't tell if you don't," she said jokingly.

"Uhh—nevermind."

So this wasn't exactly the undressing that Duo Maxwell had been hoping for after just recently reuniting with his best friend, but he wasn't about to point that out to anyone else in the room. The American only expressed it in a tiny little snort to nobody and flatly started at the wall while the blonde woman went to work with bright yellow tape measure in hand. He wasn't in the best of moods or situations at the moment to actually fake a few smiles, but when he weighed the fact of the matter, he had no reason to bitch. While he stood half-dressed before the series of mirrors, Heero found it more comfortable to sit in the first of three leather armchairs against the wall and flip through an old Rolling Stone. The glossy paper faces of three bratty punks with green and red hair mugged at him and Duo found a flat stare to match it. There was something wrong with a situation when one couldn't find a reason as to why there was a need to be pantless. It wasn't even all that warm to tell the truth, and Duo felt, well, a bit small. 

And it wasn't the most fabulous thing to feel either.

The optimal thing would have been if Duo remained as he was, stripped down to a pair of black plaid boxer and navy blue wifebeater, and that smug bastard was flipping something other than the pages of a magazine. But alas, the American knew he'd have no such luck with the very engaged and very-cold-fish-anyway Japanese pilot lounging in the leather chair. The pilot innocently sat back, eyes moving quietly across the lines with a bit of laziness, for he would occasionally tire of whatever article he was reading and sigh and flip the page. 

All the while, the very chipper and knowledged-sounding blonde woman chatted as she went around her human model and seemed to analyze every last curve down to a tee of some sort. It was a bit unnerving, to have those eerily familiar amber eyes running up and down him all the time. They itched at the back of his brain because Duo could just picture them on someone else he swore he knew, but just couldn't pin point. And besides that, he was still half-naked and very skinny to boot. She would smile at him and something would always pop up in his head, the smell of an old cologne, some old joke he'd laughed at, something he just couldn't pinpoint. It was so warm and lovable, it drove him nuts.

"So, you're the famed Duo Maxwell we've been waiting on, huh? Quite the rascal, if you ask me" Rosy commented, as she pulled the tape measure completely off her shoulder and smiled faintly up at him. There was something very warm and inviting about the bright, almost-cliché smile. "So I hear you and Heero have known each other for a long time, no?"

Fighting off a little unnecessary color in his face, Duo replied, scratching at the side of his bushy head of hair. "Yeah, since we were only fifteen. It seems like such a long time ago."

"I heard you were involved in the Gundam attacks in the war back then," Rosy said pleasantly, tilting her head curiously at his waist and simultaneously pinching a length of yellow tape between each hand. Preparing to take measurements, a suit materializing in her mind.

The American blinked in surprise then whipped his head around accusingly at the taciturn brunette seated by the wall. While his head turned, the short woman tailor jumped slightly when the long plait of brown hair swung around with it, fwapping her arm as it passed. A bit jolted, she pressed the clipboard to her chest and reined in a startled yip.

"You told her?!" he yelped across the room.

Heero flipped absently through another uninteresting flurry of album reviews without looking up at his friend and let his head rest against absently his knuckles. Without seeming upset by the volume of the braided man's voice, he simply shrugged and continued to browse the glossy images of the very antiquated magazine. He skimmed over the color display of four scrappy bandmates in a fluorescent pink room pelting each other with white cake. "Duo, calm down," he said. "It's been nearly a decade since the war. The Gundam pilots are just things that high school kids drowse off to during history lectures now. We've been textbook for years now." 

A sliver of a bemused smile crossed his face; Prussian eyes still buried in the magazine. "It's alright. If you're afraid you'll be attacked by some fanatic, I'll protect you."

"I knew that," Duo retorted childishly, turning a fair shade of red in the process. He folded his arms and turned back toward the blonde tailor. Tilting his head, almost disgruntled, his voice turned matter-of-fact with an apathetic overtone. 

"I just don't think it's something to brag about," he grumbled, still flushed. "That's all."

The Japanese pilot shrugged again to himself and simply flipped to another page. But the sliver of a smirk still didn't fade. 

The master tailor giggled to herself and shook her head in amusement. This caught the American's attention, who stood in the middle of the tinsel-laced room with his jeans in a sad little pile beside his feet, and turned his blue-violet eyes toward her adorable white smile. The tailor lifted her head and said, "Well, you're secret's safe with me, honey. You can trust me." 

Duo smiled congenially back. "Nice to know not everyone has lost their integrity these days," he said with a wide, toothy smile that clearly advertised he was just poking at some fun. "You wanna be my best friend instead? I'm on the market, as it were, for a nice, honest person. Preferably a cuddler who likes romantic walks on the beach and fine dining."

"Honey, why should we stall like that? Let's get hitched! I'm free after five!"

"Sounds good!"

The two shared a conspiratory laugh, while the air was softly saturated with easy listening music from the PA. Across the room, pressed against the wall, a pair of quiet, stoic blue eyes leered noiselessly over the top of the magazine for a second, watching the brunette man laugh and the long braid of chestnut that was his trademark slide over his shoulder like a pet. He even noticed that the pilot had a cute tendency to wrap his hand around it and run his fingers along it, something oddly boyish and unforgettable. He looked so different from during the war ten years ago, not just a punk mechanic with a cheeky grin to coast him along... Charming...

The Japanese pilot suddenly blinked down at his own nose and quickly indulged himself very uncooperatively in a dull interview with some musical flash in the pan with bright teeth. At that moment, the haze that had overcome him faded out and the two voices in the room came back into existence and Heero went back to trying to read his magazine.

"Okay, honey, off with it." Her finger tugged at the collar of his blue tank top.

"What? It's cold in here! Miss Rosy, be kind! What does this have to do with getting my suit, anyway?"

"Honey, it's my shop, and I've been waiting for your cute little ass to get in here for a long time, so it's the least you can do for me."

"Alright, alright, I understand." The American sighed audibly, followed by a series of sounds of clothing and skin brushing and another article of clothing hitting the pile of blue jeans on the floor. The noises of paper being flipped from across the room slowly came to a halt, and the dim hum of music floated unchallenged through the glittering arches of gold tinsel decorating the ceiling.

"Happy now?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you deflower everyone like this, girl, or did you just happen to find a good excuse this time?"

"Good excuse," Rosy chirped happily. "What did you expect?" 

"Well, definitely not this. Man, I suppose I should have the way Wufei and Hee-chan were snickering when they talked about it."

Rosy smiled at him teasingly, her hands on her hips. "I didn't go any easier on those guys either, so don't worry about it."

An arpeggio of chattering teeth quickly followed. "Damn, it's cold."

"Honey, that's just because you're so hot."

"And undressed," Duo added resentfully. 

And suddenly, the magazine was just not interesting enough to hold the Japanese pilot's eyes down. 

In the center of the room, his image mirrored thrice behind him in full color, stood the American pilot stripped down to his boyish black boxers and the tail of braided chestnut hair flowing down his back. True to his cat-like grace, the American pilot had very lean legs and torso very close to crossing the line of scrawny or girly, with bony shoulders to match. But the first thought that came to Heero's mind was how pale his best friend seemed while under the artificial lights, despite the nice warm tone of his face. It wasn't a normal lack of color brought on by unfortunate genetics, but more of an unhealthy tone caused by frequent visits of hunger. And to accentuate that point, all along the length of his torso the faint shadows of bone would poke out in relief of the light. His friend definitely had always been very skinny while still a teenager, but there was something he definitely had forgotten to mention about his life during those last ten years. He was so fragile-looking but none of the brash enthusiasm had left his smile or any of the warm glow of his face. 

Heero found it impossible to stop staring, his stomach being punched with concern. Meanwhile, as the forgotten magazine lay in the Japanese pilot's lap, the blonde tailor finished taking quick and precise measurements. All the while, Duo strangely kept his arms tight against him and his mouth shut. Rosy smiled quickly at her model before clicking into the closet where rows of premade tuxedos, suits, blazers, and black dresses awaited to be fitted. Duo nodded quietly and remained standing, absently gazing up into the golden and glowing holiday decorations along the wall, with his messy brown bangs in his eyes. 

As wrenching it was to set eyes upon his best friend abnormally famished chest, there was worse to be found. Just below his fifth rib, which Heero could count, there was a very large black and blue oval bruise that stood out like a splat of stark black ink on fresh paper. Heero marveled at how the very adept Rosy had missed such a horrific-looking mark. 

Heero flinched as he ran his eyes over it again, drawing his eyebrows unnaturally together. It looked fresh.

As if he felt the actual weight of the eyes upon him, Duo slowly turned his head to face the Japanese pilot sitting in the chair across the room. His sincere violet-blue eyes quietly searched the strange expression on Heero's face without comprehension for a second. But soon, he realized what he was staring at with such striking worry. He'd never seen such an expression on the Japanese man's face. Duo's eyes quickly widened in surprise and the slightest bit of guilt and turned sharply away, red blooming on his face. 

The American sharply folded his arms and covered the bruise he had very obviously forgotten was there.

Before Heero could open his mouth, the merry blonde tailor returned to the fitting area with a very regal black suit, a white dress shirt, and black dress pants slung carefully over her arm. Her short and light-haired image slid up next to Duo's in the mirrors splayed out behind him. She grinned at him and lifted the undershirt, hung on a plain wooden hanger, up toward the American. 

"You're one lucky honey. I think I have the perfect one here for you; I should only have to take it in on the legs and sleeves a tad." The woman smiled to herself as she chatted, lifting the clean, pressed white shirt toward the twenty-five-year-old down to his skivvies and finding it snatched out of her grasp pretty damn fast. It was slung around his shoulders and buttoned up in what probably could have been a record if a stopwatch had happened to be present. 

"It seems you're about the same size as your friend, Trowa, just a tad or so shorter. Who knew, huh? I barely had to look for it, too."

"Thanks, Rose," Duo granted with a sheepish smile, finishing the line of buttons at his neck. His long braid of hair was slung over his shoulder and he flipped it over his shoulder before moving up to adjust the crisp white shirt and flip the collar out. The hem hung around his hips, untucked for the simple lack of pants, and looked like the picturesque wardrobe of a bachelor wandering his house on a Sunday morning, scratching himself and rummaging through a snack drawer.

"How's it fitting?" Rosy asked while separating the next garment out from her assorted collection. 

Duo glanced over his shoulder, scanned up and down his arms, and slowly seemed to forget the worried eyes upon him. A smile gladly overtook his face as he said, "Fits great, but..." The American chuckled to himself though, as he lifted his wrists up and presented them to the short blonde woman. The cuff of the sleeve completely covered his hands and only allowed the tips of his fingernails to show. He laughed again.

"It's pretty close. Trowa does have really long arms, I guess. All the better to hold Quatre with." He swung his wrists playfully so the extra fabric slapped against each other while the grin on his face grew larger. 

"So, what are you waiting for? Dress me up!"

"You know," Rosy said, her tone drifting from her usual sprightliness for a moment. Her amber-brown eyes, which Duo swore he had seen somewhere before, locked tightly on his face. "You remind me a lot of my younger brother when you say that. It's kind of eerie, too. You haven't ever heard of him, have you?"

"Well, I—" Duo began, but soon was cut short by the shrill little chirp of a phone ringing in the reception area, alone on the counter. Both people in the center of the room looked toward the hallway, glanced at each other for an instant, then came to a mutual agreement. Rosy clicked over to the series of leather chairs in her heels with garments in hand and laid them down carefully next to Heero's chair. The woman then turned and trotted quickly toward the hallway as she rushed to answer the call, the second volley of shrill ringing lingering in the air. Duo watched the blonde tailor disappear around the corner and his eyes trailed hesitantly over to the groom-to-be sitting against the wall, but quickly tore away when Heero's mouth opened to speak up.

The third, mechanical ring of the phone was cut short, and Rosy's voice echoed in the hall, not far off. 

"Oh, thanks," Rosy said with a giggle added up on her playful tone. "What are you doing here playing secretary, huh? Did your morning brunch with Veronika get cut short or something?"

"Unfortunately," a male voice answered with a similar playful tone. "But I'll cook her some Savannah Bow Ties for supper tonight. Here, it's Marshal. He says he needs another order from you."

Duo's heart skipped a very essential beat in pure surprise. He knew that voice like the back of his hand, only better.

"Thanks, honey." 

"Yup!"

Rosy then must have lifted the phone to her ear and strode off confidently toward the reception where her green-bound scheduling book was waiting for another entry on her polished reception desk. The last sounds of her presence before the faded off were the very businesslike greeting she gave to the client on the phone. But none of that really existed in his senses beyond the reeling happy shock as he dashed from the center of the room, taking Heero's attention with him, and stopped in the entrance of the hallway strewn with boughs of Christmas holly and tinsel. All still dressed only in the black silk of boxers and a dress shirt, bringing up odd flashbacks to an old scene in _Risky Business_, which Duo had ironically watched on the in flight movie that morning. It really didn't faze him anymore, the idea of running around in a pair of sketchy boxers, when he recognized the man in the hallway with a great leap in his heart. 

It was the best damn day of his life, first finding his best friend with the stunning blue eyes, and then finding the other best friend, the one he'd met on the road.

"Well, well, look who the cat dragged in! Good ole Precious, that's who!" Duo chirped, his grin only half as wide as it had been in the police station, but still wider than most human proportions. The 27-year-old man turned his head and ran his eyes up the strange sight, a grown man wearing only pajama articles and a large shit-eating grin he'd seen before. The other man's face lit up instantly, shaping into that warm and inviting grin he'd been trying so hard to pinpoint.

He was a relatively tall man, though not anything uncomfortable on the neck, with a clean-cut face and almost cliché, magazine-standard good looks to go with the unusual amber-brown eyes. Beneath his right eye, just on the curve of his cheekbone, was a black star tattoo that proved his identity, no matter how his hairstyle, color, or length changed from day to day or even hour to hour. {Which it frequently would.} Though he looked the image of a picturesque good-looking, sensible man, Duo was all so familiar with the boyish insanity and random cheerfulness that lay between his two pierced ears. At the moment, he seemed to have just his natural light blonde hair, looking disheveled and bushy. He wore a long black leather trench coat of sorts over his black sweater and khaki pants. Most characteristic of all was a patchwork scarf with patches of bright yellows, red and oranges wrapped around his neck and hanging down over his chest.

"Duo! What are you doing here?" He ran up to the braided man, smile a mile wide.

The American grinned in return, gesturing his arms widely. "What am I doing here? What you doing here, you crazy guy! Come here!" He threw his arms around his shoulders and was returned in the jubilant grin. When they pulled back, the man named Precious laughed and glanced down at Duo's clothing, or blatant lack of an essential article, such as pants.

"What's up with this? Having some fun with my sister or something?"

Duo reached up and ruffled the blonde mop in response, his other hand on his hip. "So, what are you doing here _with your sister Rosy_? I should have recognized that smile the second I walked in here. I thought you had abandoned all your family to get insanely rich and popular with everybody in Hollywood, huh?" He smiled knowingly as he continued, arching an eyebrow. "Why, you wouldn't have gone to make up with her, by chance?"

The Canadian man with the light yellow hair and amber yellow eyes gave a sheepish look not without a little humor. "I figured you were right, Duo, so I came out here after you left and guess what? I made up with her and everything's fine again! I can actually go home now, too."

"You sneaky little bastard!" Duo chirped. "I'm so proud! Didn't I tell you it would work?" 

A hand again ruffled the already wind-swept and tousled brownish-brown hair and the taller man smiled sheepishly and tried to swat his hand away from mussing it any more. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!"

"Ha, you ain't getting off that easy!"

"Spare me, Du-chan!" he joked, raising his palms to a divine presence above and making a comical face.

Duo dived at his once perfect-looking crop of hair playfully; he was completely ignorant to the fact of his half-dressed state and the pair of curious blue eyes watching his reunion escapades. Precious ducked down and made little squeaking noises like a spaniel puppy in surrender as the ex-pilot leaped at him and tried locking his arm around the elusive target's head. Both men were laughing boisterously like teenage boys would while drunk and scrapping at each other and causing a loud echo in the mahogany-lined hallway. 

As Duo pulled back and tried to reach down and tickle at his stomach, his tail of hair whipping around just as playfully, the older man with the yellow eyes yanked his braid, grabbed him and almost lifted him over his shoulder. The American only laughed, panting with half-exertion and a rush of pure happy adrenaline, when he was pushed against the wall, the scarf and soft fabric of the coat pressed up against him. Precious's face too close to his to be strictly of the friendship sort, too close to be innocuous. Duo blew a puff of air out an upturned lip to move a bang on the blonde's forehead with a lopsided almost sultry grin and both men started laughing radiantly, still wrapped up in their own little games to notice the other man standing in the entrance to the hallway. Their laughter was infectious, but somehow Heero couldn't find it all that funny in the pit of his stomach. The sting of seeing the bruise, clearly human-inflicted from the expression on his friends face, still hadn't faded an ounce and now he was philandering around shamelessly, adding fuel to the little flame of concern in his mind.

"You want to introduce me?" he asked in his most patient tone of voice, the most indifferently innocent expression he had in his facial vocabulary, standing stone still. 

Duo turned his head and his violet-blue eyes blinked, in stark contrast to the almost alien yellow tint of his old friend's wide and innocent eyes. The expression they both held were almost that of teenagers caught red-handed in something, but both grinned with eerie similarity at the same moment. The American man straightened himself up as the other stood up and tried to brush his blonde hair somewhat into place, glancing around half-sheepishly. 

"Sorry, Hee-chan, I'm just having such a great day!" He glanced back to his yellow-eyed friend and they indulged in an almost girlish giggle. Heero indulged in a weary rolling of the eyes.

"This is the guy I met while I was on wandering through California. Heero, may I introduce to you, Eduardo Felipe Sith, or other wise known to friends and the public simply as Precious," he said with a great amount of pride and flourish to his words and stood between the two best friends of his life. 

One was short, dark-haired and groomed, with stony blue-eyes and a precise, intelligent air, the other taller, a bit more disheveled all around, completely eccentric with odd-colored eyes to match, and so liable to become giddy and kittenish at the drop of a dime that he seemed like a Malibu Duo instead of a Malibu Barbie. They met eyes and both reached out for a handshake. Heero nodded professionally, issuing another distant-enough, but just-warm-enough welcoming grunt while the other grinned madly and shook his hand like an overexuberent schoolboy. They drew back their hands and Precious let out a little giggle, staring at Heero with a knowing, smarmy look that didn't seem too catty on his model handsome features, and that scared him a little. The Japanese pilot managed a "Nice to meet you" through that strange smirking expression which was directed more _at_ him then to him.

Duo obviously didn't notice, or if it had ever been directed at him, didn't mind. He smiled at the other pilot. "Precious, this is Heero Yuy. I told you about him, remember?" 

"Yeah, I do," the taller, blonde man said, that smirk never fading an ounce. Amber-brown eyes bright, he relished in a little bow to the other man, his patchwork scarf hanging down far enough to brush the floorboards. It was odd; his scarf was almost as long as Duo's hair. One more strange similarity. "How could I forget about you, the man who sold the world that Duo keeps telling me about all the time."

Duo leaned in discreetly to Precious, raising a hand to cover his ear. "Actually, that's Saved the world.'"

"Whatever." 

He waved it off and the American giggled. 

Heero glanced briefly at his smiling face, then looked quickly back to the man known as Precious. He didn't quite amuse him as much.

"Well, he was right about you. You seem like quite the wonderful gentleman. Not only are you very impressive and smart, you do have the most piercing blue eyes I've ever seen, and boyo, I've gone through a lot of those!" He laughed to himself in a very Duo-ish tone, putting his hands on his hips. "God, the way Duo would gush about you! He just wouldn't shut up about you at all! Blah blah blah, Heero this, and Heero that, blabbity blabbity blah. I bet Heero's this, I wonder if Heero can do that, I wish he'd just f—"

Duo's face had turned a bright cherry-flavored shade of very very red and now lunged on the Canadian man's shoulder, slapping his down on his wrist and trying to very subtly' indicate he didn't want anymore by snapping hasty "Shut up!" at him. 

"Precious, you promised!" he hissed in an attempt to be quieter.

"Hey, people forget sometimes, don't forget!" the blonde man answered with that deceitfully affable and equally mischievous smirk. Perhaps now Duo would understand what it was like to receive one instead of shamelessly flashing one. "Besides, doesn't Heero here deserve to have some idea of what we're talking about, huh? That's a pretty Junior High thing to do if you ask me." 

There was a tiny warm pinch of fear in the bottom of the Japanese man's stomach as the apprehensive gaze of his best friend, who was still in his boxers, turned to him and tried to read his face for something. What he was looking for and couldn't find easily even with their familiarity and many warring days and nights spent working together, even mystified Heero himself. There were hints of embarrassment all over his face that Heero recognized: The tiny jerk of his eyebrow for when he'd been discovered at something, the way he'd hesitate to blink while waiting in suspense, and even how his feet would twitch with a natural flight instinct when he really got nervous or flustered. Well, he saw little hints of all of those as Duo looked at Heero and cracked a fake smile.

"He's got a lot on his plate right now, anyway, don't you Heero? I mean, why add to those stresses?" The bright smile cut away and Duo glared momentarily at the side of Precious's clean cut face with a fiery purple tint. "I know I'd be stressed out beyond measure trying to plan my _wedding_ and get my best man prepared at the same time all while my fiancée is half-way around the world in a near war zone. It doesn't sound like fun, alright, Precious?"

The yellow-eyed man blinked and then slowly nodded as he comprehended the importance of the emphasis in that sentence, keeping that quiet and "I get it and I've shut up" look plastered on. 

Heero however didn't seem to totally comprehend the implications despite the fact of his more-than-able intellect and looked innocently at the American. "What are you talking about, Duo?" he asked calmly, arching an eyebrow. "It's been fine—"

Then Duo sighed and shook his head sadly, glancing plaintively at his blonde friend. "Heero always tries to keep all the pain inside." His bottom lip quivered believably and he poked his chest above his heart, just a twinge of emotion trying to pour out but being reined in. The amount of passion he could put corny movie-contrived, heartbreaking lines and breathe some absolutely genuine life in to them was still amazing. "It's so noble of him, refusing to let his life slip away without him!"

"That's so sad!" Precious chimed in.

He drew in a sniffle, hanging his head. "I know, I know. It's very sad."

"But noble!"

"Yes! Noble!"

The Japanese man narrowed his eyes a bit in confusion, still flickering back and forth from the two old friends, lingering longer on the man with long braided hair slid over his shoulder. 

"What the hell are you talking about, Duo?"

Duo put up a hand in the most apologetic way possible. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! It's all just a little bit of fun, Mr. I've-Got-No-Room-For-Fun-Just-My-Fiancée. Don't worry."

"So Heero Yuy, you wouldn't be that pilot engaged to the Vice Foreign Minister Darlian, would you? I thought I saw your name in the newspaper once before in a colony economy article," Precious said in speculation, his finger held up to his chin in a child-like manner. 

Duo tilted his head to side in amazement with a good few inches opening his jaw up. "How the hell do you know about politics? You get bored reading the YM horoscopes when it doesn't say you're gonna meet some hottie with nice green eyes!"

"Actually, it's Vice Foreign Minister Peacecraft now. She's decided it would be a better support for the cause of long-standing peace between the colonies and Earth."

"Oh, that makes perfect sense," the blonde man responded, grinning a wide, toothy, and photogenic bimbo smile reminiscent of Hiroshi Nakano. "How did I miss it?"

"Am _I_ missing something?" Duo asked quietly off to the side, his head going from side to side in.

Precious laughed at the almost ignored little wretched comment, filling the hallway again with that voice and cadence so similar to the Maxwell styling that it struck something in Heero's chest with a quick twisting motion. A quick, slightly painful motion as he imagined longer, woven dark hair And when the older man smiled widely with another very familiar smirk and squeezed his exotic amber eyes shut there was another strike, but one of recognition in his brain that he easily connected to the truth.

"Precious? Like that famous model Precious?" Heero suddenly asked in a stoic tone, drawing all attention back up to him again. 

"Yeah."

"I recognize you now," the blue-eyed man said flatly. He turned smoothly on his heels and walked out simply, leaving an unmistakable trail of mystery and confusion behind him with the others. Duo frowned slightly, not comprehending if Heero had the capacity to brush people off so coldly anymore that he had become such a kind-hearted softy. He certainly had that abrasive edge back in the war years, he remembered, as he had stared coldly down at him and told him to keep it down while fixing his mobile suit and then cracked Duo's own Gundam open for the parts and ran off.

But only a second later, he returned. And in his hand was a blue-blooded fashion magazine, the glossy, color-splashed pages paged open to a full-paged advertisement for responsible drinking featuring a young yellow-eyed man in classic black and white celebration attire holding a martini glass while standing amongst friends in a dusk-lit ballroom. There were a few flakes of confetti all around, but it was unmistakable that the model and the man with the model-good-looks were one in the same. The way the light presented him in the picture made his face look almost beautiful in a feminine way, though his appearance seemed sort of cliché beautiful and uneventful to Heero. He turned it toward Duo and Precious and asked again. "This is you, right?"

Precious grinned sheepishly and shamelessly all at the same time. "Yup! I really like that shoot, I remember. Free tequilas, you know. Rosy just likes to keep the magazines with me in them here now that I've retired from modeling for a while."

"What?" Duo asked in disbelief, his hand clamping down on the Canadian man's arm. "What do you mean? Why'd you quit? You were fabulous!"

Heero's eyebrow quirked at that last part.

Precious turned to his incredulous friend. "Well, I never told you this, but I also was forced to break up with this female model named Veronika that I really loved back when I still lived in Texas and I'm... Well, I'm married to her now and she's four months pregnant with our son."

Duo's mouth opened, but for the second time that day, he found it impossible to speak.

Once again, there was another painful blankness in the color of the American's eye. One best friend after another. Every last chance he had left not to be left alone and unlucky was slowly slipping away from him, he thought through the unmistakable pang in his chest, besides the dark-haired German girl he'd left behind. But even that wasn't a possibility anymore. The anvils returned and again tore through the hopeful butterflies in his stomach; their wings already patched and tied up. For a split-second, he let the disappointment simmer through to the surface, only to shatter it with a falsehood of a happy grin.

"Precious, that's wonderful!" 

The older man laughed and flashed an array of deadly-white teeth. "It is! It's going to be a boy!"

"Thought of a name?"

"Cody, of course!"

"So, a little miniature Precious Sith... what a troublemaker he'll be!"

The yellow-eyed man grinned back, the charismatic gleam from his smile dulling a bit in light of the new evidence in favor of Duo's new heartache. "Well, Duo," he said, brushing his wind-disheveled hair into place, "I better be getting home soon. But I'll talk to you when you get back, okay? Don't want to interrupt your fabulous trip to Hawaii, now would I?"

Plastering on the gracious fake charms, Duo smiled back. "Yeah, Precious. Sun and chicks from here on out, right Heero?" He laughed nervously, not even glancing toward his other best friend when he said that because he knew that the Japanese man would recognize the falsehood in his expression in an instant.

"Of course!" the model grinned. "It'll be fantastic."

"Yeah."

The yellow-eyed man, clearing Duo's height by a few scarce inches, smiled warmly and nodded. "I'll see you later then." 

Heero remained silent in the hallway; his eyes were fixed firmly on one place and immovable. So when the taller Canadian man bent ever so slightly down to equalize the difference of heights and suddenly was kissing the braided brunette man goodbye, it was locked firmly in his sights. An obvious friendly gesture, but also something hinting beyond a few beers and laughs on the couch in the living room. The American man didn't even flinch as any of this happened, but the blankness of his eyes shone a bit brighter through his thinly veiled, feigned cheerfulness, and he smiled weakly when Precious pulled back with a white grin.

"Have fun then," he bidded, as he walked a few steps down the hall and looked over his shoulder, swinging his patchwork scarf around his neck simultaneously.

"Bye," Duo replied, pulling a final scrap of happiness out of the shattered illusion that it was, resting in pieces in his stomach, enough to wave in return. He could even muster a jaunty little flick of his wrist, though his head screamed to explode. "Later, Precious."

"See ya!" With a last glimpse of amber and blonde, the man disappeared around the corner with a volley of fading footsteps to prove his departure. 

For a few seconds, Heero wasn't sure Duo even realized anyone was there with him anymore. His eyes traveled silently back to the long tail of chestnut hair, following it up even more noiselessly up to his face, which was still turned toward where the model had disappeared around the corner. Only now did he feel his stomach punch with concern. The air was almost sickeningly void of any of the infectious energy always seeping from the American's pores, a sweet sense of human humor and animation that could at least penetrate even the coldest human heart. It frightened him.

Then, with a lethal precision, he turned and grinned the biggest lie within his broad smile. 

"Alright then, we're not finished! I still have to get fancied up, right? Let's go!"

When the American brushed by, Heero only turned and watched him leave silently.


	6. Most Things Happen for a Reason

{Author Notes}  


  
Before I let you loose to run loose in this decadent candy shop of a story, I've got to address a few things. At first, each chapter was well over 10,000 pages. You have to understand that I started this story nearly two years ago [man, I'm behind, no?] and back then... I was insane! With my debut into the... well, let's call it interesting, at least, world of high school, I've got a lot less time to spend on my baby fanfiction here. The chapters won't stop, they'll just be about 4 or 5 thousand words which I'll try not to make suck with the frequent gaps of inspiration that I have. Which is no fault of my wonderful readers, I promise! Each chapter should premiere around the fifteen of each month or so.   
  
At the moment, I'm also working on another, fairly large Heero x Duo project for the 2004 One True Pairing [OTP] challenge that absorbs a lot of my writing time and inspirations. Once I finish it, I'll be able to post it in its entirety. I can't tell you much about it since it may qualify as posting it previous to the contest and disqualify me, but I will tell you that it's currently titled The One-Eared Neko and is set primarily in a delivery truck and on American roads. So any scene suggestions are welcome and I'll consider them if I can fit it into my very twisted and often flawed plot lines. Thanks, and enjoy, debasers of the world!  
  
-- Kaitsurinu  
  
Disclaimer: ** baa baa! **  
  


  
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 9x13, 1x2x1  
  
Potential Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.  
  
Chapter 6  


  


  
"Most Things Happen For a Reason"  
  


  
Precious Sith had been the only one Duo had ever looked at in that desiring, sleazy streetlight kind of way and not seen the face of his Japanese best friend glaring back coldly in denial instead. The first man he'd admitted to having an attraction to, a certain twist in his stomach and buttery leap in his throat. And besides that, he was only one who ever made him forget how much he missed Heero and all those regrets of never saying anything to him. Even if it was only for a night. The only one that could mask that puncture wound in his heart well enough to let him ignore some of the pain. Not only because of his stunning looks and smile like a fresh champagne bottle, but the inviting, gregarious, and absolutely oddball personality that was an echo of his own. There simply had been no time to brood over his old friend at first when he had stumbled down onto the model's humble doorstep on a hot Californian afternoon starving and thirsty enough to kill for a chance just to lick the water off a sidewalk. The yellow-eyed man had leaned out the door and asked him if he needed a bottle of water with a friendly voice that was butter to the ears.  
  
Once you were in the room with the eccentric Canadian man, he would lavish you with his absolute attention and do anything to cause you to smile, male and female alike. And that was what Duo needed. A beautiful distraction.  
  
And Precious was more than happy to oblige in a rebound-relationship as well.  
  
If only for one night, there was a gap in Duo's life that was inexplicably filled once he was with the infamous model who was currently fleeing the media. Though his eyes were the polar opposite of the deep blue of Heero's eyes, his hair was pale instead of dark, and his personality bubbly and playful and on the bimbo-ish side of the fence, there was still something roughly magnetic about him in his complete contrast to Heero. Almost as if he was rebelling against the deep infatuation he held for the other man simply by staring into his face. And the thought of saying 'screw you' to the remembrance of Heero's distant face had been so delicious back then.  
  
Delicious enough to let himself in to Precious's bed, at least. But beyond that, he had planned nothing but to leave in the early morning with a raided refrigerator as a souvenir of his half-hearted one nightstand. There was no room in Duo Maxwell's life for a loved one or lovers whom he would only end up injuring or hurting in some way when his luck finally ran out and he was exposed as Shinigami again. Or so he thought. But something had drawn him back again only matter of minutes later, turning him around as soon as he had reached the streetlight on the corner. Perhaps it was just another show of weakness, or some strange deity's will, but he stalked back through the darkened kitchen and up the stairs to where he was sleeping. Duo used his efficiency in stealth to slip back into the covers like he'd never woken up but it was to no avail. Since the Canadian man had apparently been aware of his every movement and the fact he had planned to leave him and embraced him like a delighted child when he didn't. And that had made him smile.   
  
Duo had never known a man who had needed him like that. And he needed to feel needed for something besides a backup gun, a reconnaissance man, or a hacker's access into an enemy computer system.  
  
So, they became fast friends. They were both equally easygoing and infatuated with having fun and cracking jokes. Without bullets exchanged, without vice-foreign-ministers-to-be on their heels, without a shadow of doubt between them that they were instantaneous best friends. It was pure freedom and honesty between them. He could leave without warning, he could drop by without warning. The model loved to cook him meals whenever he found himself without a regular job or pay and Duo would in return make an ass of himself just to make Precious laugh whenever he needed it. After a month or so, both confessed they were still in love with the people they had let slip away from them. And it didn't bother them. They still could have fun with each other.  
  
For Duo, he still couldn't force the cold, aloof soldier from his constant, everyday thoughts. And for Precious, he'd left a girl back in Texas, a tall blonde model named Veronika who was so deeply in debt from lending money to her struggling Czechoslovakian family she was close to being deported. He had loved her, and loved her still, but his best friend and former boyfriend Cody had pressured him into leaving her behind. A similar sad story to Duo's own, but it'd been that distant look that challenged humanity with its reservation that had pulled Heero away from him. And Relena as well, apparently.  
  
But he never expected to for the wild, rave-loving man to ever settle down so quickly, so readily...  
  
But then again, if he had the chance, he would have married Heero if he were barely out of grade school.   
  
He just didn't have that chance.  
  


  
[ --- ]  
  


  
As much as he dreaded facing that concerned look in those unnaturally blue eyes of his, there was a definite disappointment when he found himself unescorted back into the fitting room. The American glanced over his shoulder back at the doorway and sifted his eyes through the loops and arches of tinsel and traditional Christmas decoration, anticipating a very upset Heero Yuy following him inside. Surely, he was either going to firmly walk up and interrogate him over the bruise, or give him frowning glances from across the room and generally just brood in his own stoic way, both of which required his presence in the room to do so. It was a little strange. In place of the pilot, Rosy came clicking back into the room a few seconds later, clipboard pressed faithfully against her breast. She looked at Duo in the center of the room, unescorted and dressed only in boxers and a dress shirt, and smiled.  
  
"Well, you've got one down, hon. Now, finish getting dressed, I wanna see how it fits overall." The blonde woman trotted over on her heels and retrieved the pile of clothing she'd abandoned at the beck and call of the unattended telephone. Rosy smiled up at the American's face, but he didn't have one in return.  
  
"Oi, where'd Heero go?"  
  
Rosy paused and quirked her face into curiosity for a moment. "Oh, he said he was going out to buy some lunch for you." The professional, warm, buttery smile reminiscent of Precious returned as she held up a dark grey waistcoat to him as innocently as could be. The white of her teeth made something hurt in the bottom of Duo's stomach. "He's really very sweet like that, you know."  
  
"Yeah," Duo said with a half-nervous laugh. "I know."  
  
When the American bachelor finally accepted the waistcoat and slipped it on over his shoulder, Rosy was free to put the rest of the immaculate pile on a little velvet footstool that she pulled from underneath the chair with her foot. After that, her manicured fingernails descended upon the row of black buttons stemming up from the hem. She deftly buttoned them all and spoke at the same time, allowing Duo to stand and relax.   
  
"He also said that we might as well get you started on the rest of your wardrobe while he's out," Rosy said cheerily.   
  
"Hmm? What do you mean?"  
  
She tilted her head and leaned down to snatch up another garment gracefully, still maintaining eye contact. "You know, for the rest of the trip! I caught him in the hall just before he left and he mentioned to me that you brought very little luggage with you. It's nothing too extravagant, mind you, just some decent clothes and coats and swimsuits and such."  
  
Red color lingered across his face and it glowed above his sheepish grin. "Oh no, it's fine. That's very generous of you both, but I don't want to be a burden. You know, price-wise."  
  
"Come on! Heero wouldn't care how much you spent, don't you think?" The blonde woman giggled and offered him his black slacks in a neat square of fabric, simultaneously slapping playfully him on the chest.   
  
"It's not him," he protested. "It's me! I would feel horrible, feeding off him like some aimless parasite! I lived like that my entire childhood, and I caused too much trouble ever to take back."  
  
"Calm down. You don't be have to be so dramatic! He's your best friend, Duo! There are things friends do for each other without having to ask or be asked. It just works that way."  
  
"I guess," Duo half-huffed in defeat.  
  
"You guess? Be a little more confident in him, why don't you?" She jabbed at him to accentuate the point. "You need to realize that you and the other pilots are his sole family. He loves all of you so dearly, I can tell. It's what he wants to give you!  
  
The light in his violet eyes was dim and thoughtful, looking back into her round, chipper face. "Yeah, I know."  
  
Rosy scoffed, letting the slacks be lifted from her grip, and chastised him with an amber-brown stare, her hands promptly placed on her hips. "Oh, don't beat yourself up."   
  
The expression in her incessant smile was a little warming, at least, and Duo soon felt his guilt relent a little in its strong presence. It was a lot like his own, from his war days he spent at the side of a very unwilling Heero, cracking jokes and jabbing at him with harmless dosages of sarcasm and optimism. Always on, always persistent and gleaming. He had to admit that it was very hard to resist a smile of his own when she was being so upbeat and optimistic and infectious.  
  
"Heero's getting married to the Vice Foreign Minister, remember? He's rich!" The blonde woman giggled and leaned down for more clothing, unaware of the destructive power of her words.  
  
That's what's so depressing, Duo thought bitterly, furrowing an eyebrow slightly upward. Why did he need to be reminded so often, huh? Shinigami must have some sort of personal vendetta with him. But, like the patient soldier he'd grown to act during the immense pressures and responsibilities of war, he knew it was best to stay quiet sometimes, about certain things. He slipped on his clothing without much more comment, brushing the bangs out of his eyes dully. It matched the lifeless spark of his eyes as he thought of the wedding he'd be attending in this tuxedo, the last hope he'd be selling out in this black suit.   
  


  
[---]  
  


  
"Are you going to tell him?"  
  
"Sam, don't be immature." The delicate-looking blush-rose pink liquid swashed around the thin glass bottle as she sprayed her neck.   
  
The blonde woman's voice matched the perfect description of well-breed polish and friendly discreetness, brilliance and manners with a cold edging. It was almost too flawless; while it sounded fine in an auditorium over a high-tech digital broadcasting system, it was distant and insincere in the confines of a simple room. The dim lighting added to that removed sensation, blocked by the heavy curtains that hung in the background. She finished with her perfume as professionally as one could be at an early morning like this one and placed it in a pocket in her purse. After that, a layer of reapplied lipstick was next, marked by the habitual female lean toward the hazy mirror.  
  
For anyone entering the room, they could have instantly tasted the heavy tensions that lay in the air. It wasn't a dramatic presence, but a very important one nonetheless. One of life-changing repercussions.  
  
Relena turned while she smoothed out her dark blue business skirt and took the effort to smooth out her hair. She glanced up, her eyes adjusting easily to the dim lightning more quickly as she found herself in this position more and more frequently. Across the room, she held the attention of the tall, Italian-French publicist who was constantly at her side while she traveled the world, promoting the continuance of peaceful days.  
  
"Will you be fine by yourself?" she asked, slinging her purse under her arm.   
  
"Don't worry," Sam said reassuringly, lounging back, neck against the headboard. "Though it won't be easy without you here, it'll all be fine. The press is notoriously easy to coddle. I can manage."  
  
"I know you can," she said, smiling encouraging. It had that same distant, lovely appeal of a teacher falsely smiling. "Your ability is superb. As always."  
  
"I know," he said, his angular, masculine features lightening a bit. He rubbed at his sleep-worn face briefly and waved it off like a true easy-going man. "What are you waiting on? Go, it'll be fine."  
  
"Thank you, Sam." Her deep, cornflower blue eyes grinned in return over the traces of a reserved smile. She curled a piece of her hair behind her ear in habit and rested her weight temporarily against the dresser behind her. The shadows played across her face darkly, glowing blue as she stretched her mouth faintly.   
  
"I appreciate it more than you can understand."  
  
"And I've always said that you're more than welcome, Relena."  
  
She smiled again, as a way of answering wordlessly. A way of never losing her professional, lady-like reserve and clean-cut edge. A nod was exchanged between them and their silent goodbye biddings were completed. Simple, and clean.  
  
Long fingers rummaged across the top of the oak wood dresser and, standing femininely, she turned to glance at him again with a pair of discreet black sunglasses in her hands. The hints of light that did remain in the room reflected off them. They found a resting spot on her face as she glided out the room silently, her arm trailing behind her as it shut the door. The brass knob twisted with the squeals of years of wear as it was released and the delicate, precise sound of footsteps led down the hallway and disappeared, destined for the dark, glossy and anonymous escort car that would take her to the bustling Pakistani airport. Leaving no untied ends. Simple and clean.  
  


  
[---]   
  


  
A sea of feathery snowflakes descended from the clouds, sifting through the air slowly and coating the gentle ground with downy white. White and innocent, like the silk of a baby girl's dress. The snow fell from the sky just as sparks would fly in the pitch-darkness of night when the guns and deadly weapons of mobile suits would clash so loudly. But there was no need to think of the things of the past like that. It was Christmas time, and Quatre was happy and healthy. Nothing was better than this, and he didn't need to linger on the bygone violence of his life.  
  
While the snowflakes silently swathed the world in white, in the hallway a blonde young man was pulling the closet door open, rummaging through piles of slush-covered winter boots. Numskull sniffed curiously behind him, poking his head between the Arabian's leg and the door. He pulled on a pair of thick, bulky brown boots, sitting on a mahogany and happily pulled the leathery laces tight while the dog sniffed at his shoes. A maroon-colored winter cap pulled over his bright blonde hair and dressed in a heavily insulated grey coat and knitted black mittens, Quatre was ready to roll around in the snow until his face froze clear off. He grinned happily, looking out the frosted window at an expanse of white cut only by the dark green spruces and distant, jagged grey lines of civilization.   
  
Numskull yipped excitedly at his heels and he looked down and promptly patted his head, ruffling his scraggly fur.   
  
"Yeah, you want to play outside too?"   
  
Again, the puppy yipped, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Quatre kneeled down on one leg and playfully roughed up his face. The little dog fought back against the onslaught of mittens, growling ecstatically. A blur of scrappy brown, Numskull wrestled with his hand, clamping his tiny legs on his wrist and thrashing his head from side to side and nipping playfully. It was one of his favorite games, but even so, he had to be careful not to knock over the young puppy.  
  
"Huh? You wanna?" Quatre asked, smiling brightly. "Okay, come on!" He stood up, and as he reached for the brass doorknob with his knitted black mittens, the innocent quiet was interrupted quite suddenly by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. Quatre's head whipped around, the cap that he wore causing his ears to pop out rather cutely, and he was confronted with his fiancée standing in the wood-paneled hallway behind him. Looking rather impatient, as well.   
  
The lean angle of his legs in blue jeans was like that a suspicious parent, waiting at all hours of the night for their child to walk through the door. All it lacked was an expectant tapping of the foot. His arms were tucked tightly together in a loose, sleeveless paint-stained white shirt he had no doubt usurped from Heero's dresser.   
  
"Hi, honey," Quatre said innocently, although he had a knot tying itself quickly in his stomach. Trying to keep the innocuous tone was very difficult in the face of the danger of being caught. "What's up?"  
  
Beneath his cinnamon-colored bangs, there was a very distinct, level look in those green eyes.   
  
"Quatre..."  
  
Instantly, the grown blonde man, head of a major corporation at the scant age of sixteen and a seasoned soldier at the even scantier age of fifteen, suddenly stomped his foot like a three-year-old would have if he had been denied ice cream.   
  
And he meant it.   
  
"Trowa! Please, just come on!" he pleaded. Or just whined, however you want to word it. "It's Christmas, and it's snowing outside! I just want to have some fun!"  
  
"Aren't I any fun?" Trowa asked, putting a flat, humorous hint of disappointment in his voice.  
  
Quatre's big green-blue eyes begged along with him, underneath his hat-matted bangs. Beside his puffy dark coat, his fists were clenched threateningly. In mittens. "Of course you are, but you're being ridiculous about this!"  
  
"I don't want you going outside, that's all," Trowa said. He walked noiselessly up to his blonde fiancée in a pair of ratty socks and put his hands on his shoulders. "I'm worried about you."  
  
Both pilots looked into each other's eyes, but each seemed completely beyond the range of their normal ways of behaving as they stared across the two-inch difference in heights. The characteristically warm and compassionate tint of Quatre's eyes was brooding and slightly resentful toward the markedly openly emotional expression of his taller fiancé. His very handsome fiancé, he had to admit. His dark, cinnamon-colored hair had grown longer than it had been during the war and concealed more of his green eyes, but it was radically more kept and attractive. And his cold-hearted, empty stare that had once struck fear now just overflowed you with guilt with their over-protectiveness. He pouted his lips sullenly up at him. "You're psychotic," Quatre stated finally.  
  
"Why don't you stay inside with me? I'll watch City of Angels with you again if you want," the Heavyarms pilot offered to convince him, gently putting both arms around his waist and pulling him faithfully closer. Drawing his adorable fiancé near. "Even though I've seen it too many times to count and still retain my mental health."   
  
It was a sweet gesture, but...  
  
"Nope!" Quatre squeaked in refusal.   
  
The blonde, much in the excessive mind set of a three-year-old, thrashed out of his grip by squatting down and dropping out of the circle of his arms. With a laugh, he scrambled back to his feet in an attempt to race out the door before his half-bewildered boyfriend had the chance to realize what he'd done. Trowa lunged after him, a sly smile stretched on his face, and managed to wrap his long lanky arms around the familiarity of the Arabian's waist while the blonde struggled against him, both snickering to themselves. Quatre's hands wrapped tightly around the brass doorknob, a vice of death. Had it been alive, it probably would have choked to death instantly. Meanwhile, Numskull yapped wildly between them and darted back and forth.  
  
Trowa grunted after he tugged at his fiancé's midsection and found he wasn't appearing to be letting go. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep those ever-so-precious pleasantries in his tone. "Quatre, let go," he asked.  
  
"No!"   
  
"You're being unreasonable, so let's talk, please," the brunet bargained in response. But the blonde's stubborn streak was scrubbing out to the outside, and it refused to be defied. His grip tightened.  
  
"You're the ridiculous one here!" Quatre shot back with just as much conviction to his words. "I couldn't reason with you now, you're too paranoid!"  
  
Trowa tugged a little harder, just enough to jar his suddenly snobby blonde amore, just enough to let the jagged tone of a growl slip into his voice. It was only for persuasive measures, honestly.   
  
"Quatre Raberba Winner, you let go of that doorknob right now. I don't need to go through this just to talk to you!"  
  
"When you're crazy you do!" he retorted, straining his fingers tighter around the smooth brass doorknob and his boots against the floor. His green-blue eyes furrowed, turning unnaturally dark and resistant. "I tried, but you've gone past sanity, Trowa, I'm afraid. It's this house, and I'm gonna go outside before the demon claims me too!"  
  
"What? Quatre-!"  
  
"No, I'm not gonna stay in here!"  
  
"Quat-!"   
  
A flurry of soft gray coat and knitted black mittens was all the Heavyarms pilot managed to catch glimpse of his unusually stubborn blonde fiancé as he shook him off. Like a sack of bricks, Trowa was dropped to the floor and landed painfully on his ass, barely escaping a head collision with the large, mahogany wood shoebox on the side of the hallway. Emitting a little, 'Oof,' of surprise, he leaned heavily against the wall in a half-daze in order to regain his balance and looked up to the door. It flew open on its hinges and Quatre dashed outside in a grey, black, and blonde blur with the scrawny little Border terrier hot on his heels. In his haste, he let it swing open and an icy blanket of air crept slowly inside. It nipped at Trowa's feet as he irritably mumbled to himself while standing back up and slamming the door.  
  
He stared out the dim, frosted window in the center of the door like the half-jilted thing he was, only distinguishing the dim outline of the other blonde pilot growing smaller toward the drifts of snow. At first he just ran, but soon found immense happiness in flinging snowballs up in the air, probably in full knowledge that his fiancé would be watching him half-sullenly. His expression narrowed slightly. "Duo's been corrupting you somehow. You're acting just like him," Trowa commented flatly, with strings of unhappiness detectable in the sardonic humor.  
  
But this wasn't finished for them.  
  
The Heavyarms pilot ran back upstairs in search of warmer clothes. If Quatre wanted to act like a child, then the only reasonable thing was to act like one, too. He snatched up a hat and gave a curt little sigh to himself, pulling it churlishly over his ears.  
  


  
[---]  
  


  
It'd been a cheery, colorful rollercoaster of clothing at the honor of the blonde Sith sister, and her subject and more than adequately handsome model was dressed and undressed again and again. Like a bright-faced Barbie doll, he went welcome into each venture she found hanging patiently for him on a wooden hanger in the closet. Clothes were of no expense here. Not necessarily to buy, but to slip on; this was recreation time for both of them. Sunny-faced and bushy-tailed, Rosy darted to and fro between the lush closet to the half-naked man she held in her custody if only for the afternoon. Silks and cottons and colors and apparel billowed out from her arm and landed in Duo's sometimes-overwhelmed arms. In front of the spotless, gleaming mirror, he dressed in dapper brown slacks and cherry red sweaters, slim, swank and Gap-labeled tanks and shorts, beautiful dress clothes, spin-offs of Duo's affection for priest colors, and the unanimous favorite, the brazen punk and roll t-shirts with obnoxious, but keen, slogans in boxy letters and baggy dark denims that hung on his hips temptingly. Like a dream. He could barely remember being so swept up in extravagance and finery like this.  
  
But as he stared into his reflection, looking blankly into his own violet eyes and hands lying limp at his sides, his mind couldn't stop wandering from the petty clothes.  
  
A gunshot, the memory of the scent cold midnight sea spray hovering in the air, and the sight of a familiar dark-haired boy of only fifteen thrown to the ground by his bullet. And more recently, the image of a blond-haired man smiling warmly down at him from his vista on the doorstep, hand extending to the opened doorway in the thick, buzzing humidity. And his grinning amber eyes.  
  
{Good morning, stranger. You wanna come inside...?}  
  



	7. Games of Innocent

Disclaimer: We love the subs! They are dollar off! When you bring in a coupon! ...Yeah, spongemonkeys kick ass. And don't you forget it!  
  
Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 9x13, 1x2x1  
  
  
Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.  
  
  
  
Chapter 7   
  
"Games of Innocent"  
  
  
  
  
  
Quatre had escaped, and with that escape came a rush of freedom and giddiness that he knew only convicts and teenagers speeding off toward college experienced. The sweet sensation of defying rigid and ridiculous structure. Normally, the blonde man was considered as mild and sweet mannered as a cup of English tea, for good reason, but as he fled the doorstep, his boots slipping beneath him as he sprinted though the snow, he felt deliciously mutinous. His yapping accomplice dashed ecstatically beside him, snapping at the snow that flew up from his feet. Like a thief with money spilling out his jacket, Quatre felt amazed to be out and the short burst adrenaline still circulated through him in purity. One of the only other times he'd run like that, panting and praising his god for simply being alive, was during that horrible war. Running through darkness, with bullets raining down and death always snapping at their heels if they slowed, and collapsing into the safety of their mobile suits or safehouses at the end of nights of unholy fighting.   
  
He and Duo had always shared a common sense of morbid exhilaration after the many close shaves they'd had when escaping, though Duo's was much more radical and filled with outbursts of laughter. Quatre could smile weakly after defying death, but it was quickly followed with a sickening hole of guilt and distress afterward. The American, however, seemed to deal with those aftershocks with a similar smile and humor with underlying disgust and demons. The others, the more stoic and internal pilots, never joked about it and often were displeased to see anybody laugh at the horrors of war. But it wasn't laughing. It'd been crying out, just wishing for an end to it all so desperately that there was nothing to do but laugh at their extravagant situation. But for it to be over... that only made the elation in Quatre grow even more. He'd never dreamed how much fun it would be to ditch Trowa for a little while, and just be without the presence of the man he loved so much. For being as notoriously levelheaded as he was, Trowa could still act like a real fool sometimes.   
  
Quatre dashed across the driveway and plunged into the deep snow just to the side of the house, where the dark firs and pine trees grew silently, their evergreen boughs loaded down with bundles of snow. He struck at one branch playfully, and a lump of snow fell to the ground with a dull, wet thump and made him grin. He laughed to himself and waded through the deep snow. But, hovering back, much too diminutive to ever dream of making it through such a sea of snow, Numskull yapped unhappily as he watched his other master walk further and further away without him.   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," the blonde Arabian said, beaming brightly. He went back for the scraggy brown puppy, which paced back and forth at the edge of the deep snow, pink tongue lolling and steam racing up from his mouth. Another curt yap and Quatre kneeled down beside him. "I didn't mean to leave you, Num. Come on, I'll carry you."  
  
Numskull whimpered happily, a very vocal puppy, and nearly leapt into the blonde man's arms, dousing his chin in happy doses of saliva as he did so.  
  
"Ohh, it's okay," Quatre said. "Yeah, such a good boy! You want to sneak away with me, don't you?"  
  
Just as he cradled the tiny, anxious bundle of fur in his left arm, Quatre's head turned at a sound. It echoed crisply through the background of wintry pines and distant gleams of metropolis and slowly entered the Sandrock pilot's ear, slowly giving him realization as well. He secretively clutched the border terrier closer to his snowflake-dusted winter jacket and grinned as he heard a series of footfalls on the front step quickly pursuing him.   
  
Quatre's expression was uncharacteristically smug, still tinted with his unique innocence, as he whispered playfully against the puppy's head. "That'll be Trowa." He giggled when another sensation of defiance struck him at the moment. The steady, half-ominous crunching of boots on the snow rang steadily louder and louder in their directions. As strong as Quatre's bond was with Trowa's, his was equally keen and he knew it would be moments before the cinnamon-haired man would hone in on him, with a disgruntled mar across his features. And that incited a challenge which the unusually deviant Arabian wouldn't dare pass up. He blamed it on the burnt toast he'd eaten.  
  
"Come on, let's show him he's just being paranoid, huh, Numskull?" The blonde man whispered to the adopted pet, as he quietly shifted and slunk carefully through the mounds of wet snow, slipping deeper into the dotted trees like a grinning specter with flecks of snow flying out from his heels.  
  
  
  
  
  
Duo nervously bit his tongue so pink peeked out the corner of his half-furrowed lips, straining to see his image in the reflection of the mirror, craning over his shoulder as he flourished a turn for Rosy's evaluation. The silky, wondrous fabric felt like nothing across his skin, perfectly draping over his shoulders so that it was loose and airy and immensely comfortable, but it still fit his slim frame and unnaturally bony shoulders. Awe stole the breath from Rosy's throat, soaking in the bewitching image of the brunette American dressed in traditional Japanese clothing, a sensuous and strange jet-black kimono. Duo himself struggled once or twice for reality, washed with an overwhelming feeling that homeless, poor war orphans who had scrapped like common rats in garbage and worn discarded sheets could appreciate for every fantastical ounce.   
  
Out of all the cultured clothes, offered with Peacecraft money in mind, this one practically broke Duo's heart the instant he laid his hungry eyes on it. He'd been allowed only a few ensembles and instantly dropped them all in favor of this more expensive piece. And, much to Rosy's amusement, the rather body-conscious pilot had practically sheered the buttons off his previous garment, stripping as fast as he could, just to pull the kimono on. Rosy's amber eyes smirked at him, relishing in the image, as Duo shifted to stare into the mirror, his slim black-draped image reflected around him thrice.   
  
Rosy explained as she clutched the clipboard to her breast how the beautiful black silk had come to rest in their tailoring shop. Since Heero's arrival in the city, he'd been aware of Relena's and his wedding preparations. He made acquaintances with Rosy's shop and requested many items, groomsmen suits and clothing one of those. With his distinct taste in styles similar to Feudal Japanese classic clothes and his future relocation to Japan, Rosy had invested in a few kimonos, one of which was the black beauty Duo now reveled in.  
  
"It's nice, huh?" Rosy said, smiling hazily at the back of the American's head. The sinuous plait of hair swung rhythmically at his back, bushing the silk of the kimono ever so slightly.  
  
"Fucking gorgeous," Duo drawled in return, adding an almost feminine flair by pivoting his foot on the toe as if to flaunt his shoes. His infatuated violet eyes never left the black silk in the reflection. "I can't believe no one's snatched it up. I've never had good luck like this before."  
  
"I don't display it much. It's more off a special-interest item, anyway. Special ordered from Kyoto." The mastertailor, with her bright yellow hair spilling around her shoulders, clicked over to Duo and smoothed out the creases along his shoulder and back. Duo barely registered her presence, enraptured with the black kimono. "We specialize mostly in wedding attire and formal events, so a kimono wouldn't sit well displayed beside a tuxedo and rose prom dress. It's a shame few people have seen it. For those who appreciate the culture, it is very beautiful."  
  
The American gaped quietly. "God, I wanna live in this thing!" Duo whispered, hungrily licking his lips simultaneously.   
  
Rosy laughed and patted his shoulder as she clicked away. "Don't you just?"  
  
"Absolutely!" With a half-dramatic sigh, he collapsed his shoulder against the wooden rim of the mirrors unfolded before him and rested his cheek on the cold glass. "You have no idea how much I love this," Duo sighed, daydreams clouding the distant haze in his eyes, and stroked the silky, seamless fabric before spinning a beaming smile at Rosy. "You're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?"  
  
The mastertailor scoffed and scooped up the discarded ensembles in order to meticulously replace them. "It's your choice, Duo! You can pick one of whatever you want, aside the swimsuit and dinner attire and things, like I said before. Were you even listening?"  
  
"But it's so nice! I feel like I'm robbing you," the American mumbled with a moping overtone. A mischievous smirk quickly cut through that like a knife, realizing the irony in his last phrase. "Then again, that's half the fun, right?"  
  
"Hell, honey, I'd eat you up like this. It's yours."  
  
The last, sugar-dipped compliment rolled dully off Duo's hearing and away from his abstracted brain as harmlessly as beads of water off glass. Long, lanky fingers that had clawed through the grime and horrors of war now absently brushed at the loose hair pooled behind his ears, his left hand accustomed to curling around his insanely lengthy plait of hair. Duo's dark violet eyes flickered around the mirror, soaking in every inch of the magnificent gift with a faint awe-struck expression occupying the usual brash and defensive smile.   
  
He was so wrapped up he barely registered the clicking heels and warm greeting as Rosy smiled and strode over to the door, too infatuated with the kimono and the realization he could actually own something so nice to catch the fresh aromas of food. Not even the dark reflection lingering behind him caught his attention. Only when a hand brushed off his shoulder, straightening out the liquid black fabric to model perfection, did Duo resurface to reality and turn his head to see Heero standing behind him, dark eyes muddled and stoic and a large brown paper bag in his fist. The wafting smells of fresh Italian food clawed suddenly at his nose.   
  
"Hey!" Duo drawled, spinning around happily. "Funny meeting you here!"  
  
An instant later, the petite blond Sith sister inhaled deeply as she pulled at the lip of the bag of newly retrieved foodstuffs. Rosy sighed hungrily and peered inside. "This smells really good, Heero. Where'd you go?"  
  
With his jacket still slung over his shoulders, dusted with minute traces of snowflakes and now being pounced upon, shifted half-uneasily, drawing the lunch away before Duo's thieving quick fingers managed to grasp anything inside the bag. "Fazoli's," he grunted. "Duo, I wasn't sure what you liked. Is fettuccine alfredo alright?"  
  
Like an alerted puppy, Duo's spine suddenly became unnaturally straight as he bounced up with a grin. "Alright? Of course it's alright! It smells delicious!" The American squeezed his violet eyes shut and flashed his tongue over his lips. Again, despite the frowning expression growing on his Japanese friend's face, he bent down and mischievously peered down into the sweet-smelling darkness of the bag, rattling the sides playfully.  
  
"Oh man, you have no idea how much I was starving!"  
  
Heero blinked at him evenly. "You'd be surprised."  
  
It only took a moment for that soft-spoken phrase to take root in Duo's mind and slowly sprout into a crawling vine of guilt, thinking back to the intensely concerned expression, at least in soldier standards, aimed at him when Heero had noticed how frail and malnourished he was becoming. Seen his ribs pawing out into the air. Seen the bruise. White rimmed his eyes and he managed a low, "Shit," staring up at the stern Japanese face like a deviant teenager caught scribbling swearwords on the teacher's answer key. His hand slipped off the bag like it was bubbling acid and he quickly clutched it to himself, officially busted.   
  
Heero, though, only graced him with a stern look and turned to the blonde mastertailor. "Rosy," he said, efficiently communicating something through his cryptic message. The diminutive blonde nodded compliantly and smiled warmly as she scooped up her clipboard again, now littered with chicken scratches of fitting notes and completed order forms.   
  
"You can have lunch in my upstairs office, if you'd like," Rosy commented, swinging the corner. She paused, French-manicured nails gripping on the wall, and beamed mischievously at the American wrapped in black oriental silk. "I have scheduled customers after lunch. If I don't talk to you again today, Duo, I'll see you later."  
  
"I'll promise to call, alright?"  
  
The blonde woman, feline and kittenish on her black heels, flashed a final smile. "And don't leave Precious out either!"  
  
"Of course not," Duo replied happily. "Bye, Rose."  
  
Rosy gave a curt, girly wave, curling her fingers down once or twice, and clicked out of sight. Leaving him with the very unwanted and unpredictable Yuy demons of wrath. Awaiting a vicious sentence or berating the instant all possible witnesses had left the area, the American automatically braced himself for a lashing out of any kind and flinched when Heero turned to him.   
  
His eyes scanned over him and Duo feared it was to find a weak spot. But of course, the perfect solider knew that perfectly well. Instead of a glass jaw, whatever family tree Duo descended from probably had a line of glass stomachs. Land just about any caliber punch below his ribs and he'd collapse to that person's mercy like a rag doll. To Heero, whom Duo had seen twist solid steel like playdoh sticks, it would have been so easy to become upset with him, but he didn't. Instead, those fuming dark eyes carefully watched him at a distance and he lingered on the voluptuous shape the semi-loose gi held while draped over Duo's shoulders. "It's a very nice kimono, Duo. You should change out of it."  
  
"Right," Duo agreed sheepishly. There were countless frantic butterflies in his head that heaved a collective sigh of relief.  
  
The Japanese man seemed to be able to sense it, and he shifted his weight unhappily. The gleaming slivers of fierce concern, almost anger, returned to his eyes and his expression darkened a tad. It took a few minutes for Duo change out of his beloved new piece of clothing, and much flushed voicing out for Heero to loan him some common decency and at least turn around, although he'd dressed and undressed countless times during the war and made little ado about it. Once finished, the American laid the kimono out beside his selected tuxedo and other ensembles and jauntily dusted off his palms with a clap. Feeling bold and enthralled and immensely sick in the stomach with fear simultaneously, all in the pit of a disgustingly erratic and nervous stomach, Duo slung an arm casually over Heero's shoulder as they walked side by side. Tiny stings of cold from the snowflakes melted under his warm skin, but they couldn't hold even a stumpy candle to the stings in Duo's brain. He grimaced dramatically to himself where no one would notice.  
  
He would have a lot of explaining to do. A whole fucking lot, he supposed.   
  
  
  
  
  
Quatre soon dropped the bundle of fur and energy otherwise known as Numskull for the sake of his tiny new mission: escaping capture. For as soon as he began to stalk through the expanse of dark, intertwining firs, Norwegian spruces, and red and white pines towering far above the Sandrock pilot's head, a cool wind snaked through and brought scent of Trowa swiftly downwind to the young puppy's nose. And being the selfishly spoiled pseudo-child that he was, the small terrier began to keen out for his father and yap loudly in his direction. Faced with little choice if he wanted to escape the confines of the house and enjoy the snow, Quatre gently placed the puppy in the snow and bolted furiously in the other direction. He ran knowing very well that Trowa could easily track Numskull rapid tracks to his own, and his own tracks straight to him. Snow spit from Numskull's flying paws as he skimmed over the icy snow, yapping wildly.   
  
The blonde ducked behind a tree as soon as the not-so-distant sounds of boots crushing snow, pausing, and the low hum of his fiancé's voice praising the tiny dog. A squealing yap of happiness rang through the snowy hills and Quatre was sure that Trowa had hooked the snow-dusted puppy under his arm and resumed the hunt. He smiled though he cursed, and began to creep as noiselessly as he could, prey to the intensely acute senses of his husband-to-be. No doubt it would only be a matter of seconds before Trowa closed the gap.   
  
Not only was he a skilled soldier, he was also getting very pissed off with Quatre's flippant behavior. That would only slice his time on the run drastically in half. So, rubbing the stinging cold of his face with stuffed black mittens, the Arabian glanced around for any possible way of escape. His blue-green eyes shifted from snow-covered dark bough to snow-covered dark bough until the barren trunk of a long departed deciduous tree appeared in his vision. And he smiled.   
  
Only moments later, a very perturbed Trowa Barton strolled into a tiny clearing of snow which was surrounded by dark green pine trees. Across the snow, obvious traces of his blonde fiancé crisscrossed endlessly, as if he'd sprinted across the clearing many times over, and a quick frown marred his features. The bundle of warmth and fur and the so-called traitor named Numskull was of course cradled in his arms, panting happily and whipping his ears back and forth. Endless spoiling on Trowa's behalf had done him good and formed an alliance with the terrier, which had proved very fruitful in this situation. The little yipping dog had indeed left a trail of pawprints that could be traced to Quatre's last known location. Trowa frowned though, confronted with an unreadable clue.   
  
His skeptical green eyes shifted around suspiciously, as tiny crunching sounds of snow drifted to his ear from undistinguishable places. Saturated sunlight drifted down through the intermittent cover of intertwining fir boughs, scattering shadow and light across the snow. It was completely empty to untrained eyes, but a soldier such as himself was not satisfied.   
  
Suddenly, Numskull yapped loudly and surged out of his master's arm to scamper to the ground. Trowa knew something was coming, and quickly turned his head to the source of a sudden snowy noise. Despite years of mercenary training and bloodthirsty fights in dark and treacherous nights, it could do nothing to prepare him from the icy snowball that he received in the face.   
  
And Quatre began to laugh.  
  
Dumbfounded and struck with fuming disbelief, the cinnamon-haired man stood frozen in place as snow and ice dripped slowly down his face. Minor icy pain ran through his skin where the bulk of the snowball had struck him, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut in response to the icy slush now dripping along them. The winter air ran clear with the delighted giggling of a certain blonde man as Trowa slowly pressed the palm of his hand to his face and whipped the snow away. He brushed the trails of melted water already streaking down his cheeks and dripping down into the borrowed shirt he wore. Instant green daggers were aimed at Quatre, perched happily between the forked branches of a barren, sleeping maple tree. The vexed expression soon degenerated into something extremely sour.   
  
"Quatre Raberba Winner!"  
  
"Yes, love?" Quatre giggled innocently, tossing another snowball rhythmically in his black mitten.  
  
Trowa frowned up at him. "I want you to come back in—" The half-fevered words, unusually passionate for one very stoic Heavyarms pilot, were cut short with another blast to his pride. The second dripping, soggy snowball landed precisely in the location of the first: On his handsome face and deep within his fractured pride.   
  
Quatre paused and reveled in his victorious glow, flashing a smug smile down at his fiancé, before he suddenly let out a yelp of surprise and was tossed off balance. The Arabian swung his legs frantically out to save him and snatched at branch. Before he could be sent toppling to the ground, he managed to recover his precious balance. Panting in adrenaline fear, he shifted his bright blue-green eyes toward the vengeful snowball plastered powerfully to the chipping bark, scant inches from his face. Icy cold air still stung at his cheek. Surprised, Quatre looked down at Trowa again, this time his victory a shade paler.   
  
He leaned forward, still tightly gripping the branch. "Trowa!" he snapped defensively, with slivers of fear still audible in his tone. "What—"  
  
Another snowball burst crisply on Quatre's mouth and induced an instantaneous playful glare of vengeance down at the smug brunette, now hurriedly balling another handful of icy snow. Simultaneously, the blonde man laughing uncontrollably in his sniper's perch overhead reloaded, snatching snow and ice caked onto the very tree itself and pounding it into a roughly round piece of ammunition. The two launched their assaults at the same time, and Quatre squealed when his fiancé's snowball smacked his ear and Trowa easily sidestepped his own attack.   
  
Sputtering and clawing the snow off his ear, Quatre paused and stared down at Trowa, and received a silent look in return. For a split second, the only noise drifting between them was the permeated silence and the tension radiating across their gazes. Then Trowa twisted his face in a smirk and lashed his arm, flinging another snowball, and Quatre laughed and hopped down to narrowly avoid the attack, crouching behind the broad, snow-encrusted trunk. With a wildly excited puppy yapping and dancing around his heels, Trowa launched after his fiancé, scraping snow off the ground as he sprinted.   
  
The Heavyarms pilot leapt as he sharply turned, ready to launch another snowball assault, but was half-stunned to see nothing but pale snow gleaming up at him behind the trunk.   
  
"Lookout!" Quatre's voice yelled playfully. Frigid snow bit his neck and a shocked Trowa Barton bodily collapsed into the snow. From behind a stumpy pine sapling, hidden only mere feet from his fiancé's critical miscalculation, a wildly giggling Quatre sprinted off while smiling recklessly. Another icy snowball was quickly developing in his snow-crusted black mittens. Craning his head over his shoulder, he slung his ammunition again and struck him squarely in the ass.   
  
Trowa's head whipped up and it took only an instant to launch off his hands and knees, spitting out a rather unpleasant taste of grassy snow. Where one would naturally expect a sour, vengeful glare there was only an engulfing, beaming smirk. He staggered up and, with Numskull vaulting from boot-print to boot-print in his wake, Trowa sprinted after the disappearing blonde specter. A glimpse of sunny yellow hair, tucked beneath a maroon skullcap, flashed behind the house and he pursued. Seconds later, the gap shrunk very dramatically. It was unfair to his poor lover, Trowa thought. When Quatre staggered through deep sweeps of snow clear to his knees, the snow would barely lap three or four inches past his ankle.   
  
Quatre craned his neck and fleetingly glanced over his shoulder. He yelped in surprise, realizing with a nervous laugh just how hot his fiancé was on his heels. Seconds later, it was inevitable. Still flushed with adrenaline and sheer excitement, the blonde Arabian spun on his heels and slapped powder in Trowa's direction as a pitiable last defense and squealed fearfully as a warm, thin weight tackled him to the ground. Both pilots, grinning widely, collapsed into a convenient snowbank with a thud, spraying fresh, drifting powder into the air. Two possessive arms clutched around his waist and Quatre laughed in defeat as Trowa kissed him despite the snow stinging at his face. He smiled into his fiance's lips and happily surrendered, sliding his mittens around his still-dripping neck.   
  
After a loving exchange, Trowa pulled back, craftily smiling down at Quatre, whom was still shaking with mild laughter. "It's no fair. You're so much faster than me," the blonde mumbled, with a mock-sullen tone drawn across a bright smile.   
  
"Don't I know it," Trowa said smugly.  
  
The snow-dusted Arabian rested the palm of his hand on the cinnamon-haired man's neck. "See?" he asked, shrugging his slim shoulders. "It's not so dangerous to be outside. You didn't need to be so paranoid."  
  
"I wasn't being paranoid," he said calmly, a mild expression of disapproval haunting his face.   
  
"Nothing happened, Trowa! We went outside and nothing happened! You have to stop believing that everytime I set foot past the threshold that—"  
  
The Latin pilot simply frowned in concern, propping his weight on a narrow elbow, casting his dark look down at the face of his husband-to-be. "I don't want you getting hurt again like you did."  
  
A clouded expression flooded Quatre's eyes, as his hand painfully gripped Trowa's forearm. "Trowa, please! No one will find us here, I promise!"  
  
And even more painfully, the Heavyarms pilot's brows furrowed upward, still maintaining an ambiguous amount of frustration. Forerunners to tears gleamed in his eyes, significantly more emotional since his days as a cold mercenary. "Wasn't that the mentality we had last time? And you were still attacked, Quatre. Rebels lingering on memories of war can't relinquish the past. They'll hunt you down again."  
  
"Trowa—"  
  
"We were sure they wouldn't find us the last time," Trowa firmly asserted in his gravelly monotone, possessively weaving his icy fingers into Quatre's. "The last time, I had to watch them try and assassinate you."  
  
Blue-green eyes equally distressed, Quatre looked unhappily. "I know," he sympathized softly. "But what kind of life is that—living in fear? Of course I'm afraid to death that those White Fang remnants will never relent, I'm afraid for my entire family and especially you, but I'm more afraid of losing to them."  
  
"But they will win if they kill you Quatre," Trowa stressed, gripping the tiny hand resolutely.   
  
"No," the blonde protested, adopting his diplomatic tone of wisdom that only truly enlightened souls possess in times of adversity, squeezing Trowa's hand equally emotionally. "The rebels left over from that horrible war still hate the Gundams for crushing their last hopes, however misguided and violent they may have been. They want to make us miserable. And if we're intimidated into hiding so badly we can't step outside without fearing for our very lives, then they've truly let them win, Trowa."   
  
His eyes bore deeply into those glazed-over ones of his beautiful fiancé, trying to convey the sincerity of his words to their fullest. The naturally stoic pilot, with his cinnamon bangs matted with snow, stared wordlessly down at Quatre as indecision and striking fear for his loved one churned painfully in his stomach. To deny the truth of any of those words was futile; he knew that Quatre was infinitely right with his calm head under pressure.   
  
But that didn't vaccinate him of the fear.  
  
A commiserating, half-crooked emotional smile crossed the blonde's face. "Maybe," Quatre murmured, "that's just the price I have to pay to be with you. If so, it's worth it."  
  
A moment later, after countless complex gears had shifted and deliberated, absorbing all the beauty offered up to him, Trowa stretched his lips in the biggest smile they would allow. All ways the wise one, his Quatre. Without a word, the Latin pilot nodded in silent agreement and his fiancé smiled contentedly, drawing him closer. Suddenly, the blonde man gasped as a snowball was smugly planted on his face and Trowa laughed. Quatre yelped and swung out at his retreating fiancé with a fistful of icy snow as well. Numskull only whined and dutifully followed as the two began to dance yet another dance of ice and snow.   
  
  
  
  
  
Duo found it hard to even dream of eating food when he believed it would be his Last Supper of sorts. It wasn't fear of being actually hurt or insulted by the intense Japanese man, whom currently was courteously opening the door for him, it was the sickening, acidic dread that misted over his brain of explaining all the very questionable things Heero had noticed. That would be the difficult part. And those lethal blue eyes would demand an answer, that was certain. Stepping inside the generously heated office branching off the main, Christmas-lavished reception room, Duo glanced momentarily around, deeply inhaling the signature, indescribable Sith scent. The sweet, earthy aroma clinging into Precious's hair when Duo had nuzzled against his neck. It was simply decorated room, and appealed immensely to the American's senses. To accent the very gracious amount of sunlight that spilled through the second-story window, the walls were painted black and highlighted with white accents and objects. Bright lamps also scattered around them, making sure the dark color didn't overwhelm the room.   
  
And behind him, radiating exotic Italian aromas, Heero shuffled past him and set the brown paper bag upon the central table pressed against the window. Wordlessly he extracted the steamy containers filled with fresh pastas and avoided making eye contact or hollow small talk before the American uneasily pulled out his chair and sat down. Rhythmically stroking his thick plait of chestnut hair in sheer nervousness, Duo bit his lip and sheepishly thanked Heero. The Japanese man simply pinned a pointed, awfully blue look upon him before taking his own lunch and sitting opposite of him.   
  
Two violet eyes stared blankly at the delicious plate of pasta, then flickered uncertainly to his comrade. There'd been an unnatural, loathing ease to their movements; tasks were accomplished with cold simplicity and simply forgotten, instead of the lingering nostalgia and warm inviting conversations that had recently marked their interactions. Goddamn, Duo cursed, once he'd seen a war-absent Heero, it was impossible to relate to the icy and precise Perfect Soldier. But he also accepted that an upset, probably very upset, Heero was his doing. Had he been able to keep his damned shirt on, those haunting Prussian eyes would have never seen the thin skin stretched over his bones. And that goddamned bruise!  
  
Warm, glowing yellow sunlight spilled across the polished wood of the table, cascading along the distinct Japanese features of his comrade, whom noiselessly had begun to eat his tastefully devoured spaghetti. His eyes glided along the plate, deep blue and deeply distant in contemplation of a billion possible equations. Duo swallowed nervously, and quietly joined the bandwagon of a silent luncheon, nervously picking up the black plastic fork. Despite the lurching butterflies in his stomach, his hunger was undeniable and overruled the tension seething within him.  
  
Wrapping a lick of white-dripping fettuccine around the prongs of the fork, Duo lifted it to his lips and automatically glanced upward. Heero stared fiercely at him, his intensely attractive face marred by an unreadable harsh expression. The American paled under the scrutiny, and sheepishly licked his lips. But still, the Japanese man nearly glowered at him, the heat of his glare centered on the stringy food pressed precariously to his lips. Duo understood momentarily and meekly pressed the pasta into his mouth and chewed carefully, realizing his best friend must believe he was stricken with some sort of eating disorder.  
  
"Alright, Heero, just hear me out before you—" Duo started restlessly, disowning the fork with a tinny clatter and flashing his palms in instant surrender. But the firm, rich tone of Heero Yuy's voice swiftly cut off his protesting words.  
  
"Duo, whatever you can tell me whatever you feel free to tell me. I'm not here to lecture you," the Japanese man insisted graciously, inducing a few shockwaves in his usually brash companion. His eyes focused solely on the stringy dish with bright red sauce, blue and entrancing, respectful and diplomatic where mission-oriented abrasive force had once fumed. "It's your choice of what you decide to share with me, and I respect that completely. The occurrences in your life are your private affairs and I don't have the right to stick my nose where it doesn't belong."  
  
The American was amazed, to say the least, at the diplomacy he was offered. Normally, he would have swallowed so many harsh, abrasive words and critiques, stemming from Heero's lethal perfectionism, that it would be impossible to count. To see a respecting, awfully sensitive man instead of a simple, painfully direct soldier sitting across from him, it was a bit surprising. Then again, a decade could cause billions of changes in a personality, and being human beings, Heero and himself were no exceptions. Duo leaned forward to interject.  
  
"However," Heero stated, pointedly lifting the fork.  
  
Ooooh, man. Here we go, Duo mentally sighed. The American visibly restrained a frown from bubbling to the surface and marring his face, but it was inevitable. Tirade time.   
  
"However, that doesn't stop me from worrying about you, Duo." Two fiercely blue eyes captured his face, refusing to release it. "I hope, after all the horrible things we've endured together, that you'd trust me enough to give me an entire truth. I hope you don't feel like you have to lie to me."  
  
"What?" Duo asked, visibly shaken. "Of course I'm honest! That's my philosophy! I run, I hide, but I never tell a lie!"  
  
"Yes. I admit you have never lied to me, Duo. You don't know how much I have appreciated that."  
  
The American painfully furrowed his eyebrows. However charming the newly modernized, smiling Heero Yuy may be, his eternal cryptic speech still toyed almost cruelly with his composure. Decrypting the words of such an intensely intelligent man was walking a knife-edge. Duo hated being unable to understand him completely. That beautiful enigma.  
  
The internal frustrations leaked audibly into his baritone voice. "Then why are you so upset?" Duo asked incredulously. "You said yourself I've been nothing but truthful!"   
  
Heero was not ruffled by the sharp inclination of his comrade's tone, accentuated by the defense spark running across his face. He simply pinched his lips and formulated the words to continue smoothly. Darkness seeped into Prussian blue. "Completely honest. But, I know you have just as much pride as I do, and how much you hate to show your weakness. I don't blame you, Duo. Our bloodstained pasts wouldn't allow that. Survival meant effectively hiding our soft underbellies."  
  
"Oh, I'm the callous one now, am I? Bottling up my hazardous emotions?" the braided man asked sharply. "What's my crime?"  
  
Heero's Asian face slighted in a frown. "Withdrawing the truth from me." In an inconspicuous twitch of nervousness, his callused, working hands clasped uneasily together, littered with hairline souvenirs of numerous losing battles. "By not telling me about how you're starving."  
  
There it was. The statement he'd been waiting for, scruffing his feathers in preparation to defend, and suddenly, Duo couldn't find it in him to spark back. The true concern on his comrade's face was rarely exposed. "Heero, listen."  
  
"I am," he replied quietly. The thin, twisting lines of steam rose from his unattended food, highlighted in the bright Seattle sunlight. Duo hesitated but licked his lips and pressed on, knowing it would be a slow-burning hell if he didn't explain and spend the remainder of their time together dodging glares of worry with a stumbling tongue and sheepish grin.   
  
"Before you jump to conclusions," the American said, kneading his fingers in the ridges of hair braided at the nape of his neck, "and perhaps it's too late for that, I have to tell you it's probably not what you think, all right? I'm not anorexic or bulimic or anything as pathetic as that, Heero, don't worry. I'm not some teenaged girl worried about being invited to prom, so just spit that image out. Besides, I'd look like shit in a pink halter-top dress anyway." His weak attempt at humor seemingly struck a tiny chord with in the Japanese man and he provided a small, half-hearted smile still visibly laced with concern.  
  
"That's true."  
  
"Hey!" Duo playfully quipped, mock-slamming his palm on the polished table. "It's funny when I insult myself, but it's just cruel coming from you."  
  
The smile didn't diminish. But the gleam of laughter in those Asian blue eyes swiftly disappeared along with humor. "Then what happened to you, Duo? You're painfully thin," Heero said quietly. He paused, furrowing his eyebrows darkly. "It hurt to see you starving like some war orphan. You're a grown soldier, you don't deserve starvation for all the good you've done."  
  
The American closed his eyes and pulled the paper cups of beverage from the brown bag, smiling a self-derisive smile. "Ah, but I've also done many horrible things." Sipping on the sweet-tasting pop he'd extracted, Duo stared down at his plate of pasta. "Perhaps I do deserve it."  
  
Heero frowned once again, obligatorily accepting the paper cup of black coffee.   
  
"But anyway—" The black plastic fork descended, swirled thrice in the pile of pasta, and forked a taste of alfredo fettuccine into the American's mouth. "It's nothing like that. It's just that juggling travel expenses and food costs is a little tricky in my situation. Trust me, it's nothing serious. I've always been skinny, and if I miss a few breakfasts then I start to look like an Ethiopian orphan. Bad genetics, I suppose."  
  
"I see." Although it wasn't obvious in his neutralized expression, Heero wasn't comfortable with the total flippancy with which Duo handled a possibly very fragile situation. "And the bruise? What that also from missing a luncheon here and there?"  
  
"No, it's not," Duo admitted quickly, slurping loudly. This section of the interrogation was not so systematic and clean. This was rather sloppy, to think in layman's terms. The American continued, the red-striped bendy straw pressed against his lip and eyes nervous to meet Heero's. "That... that, um, I got a week or so ago. Denver." Duo seemingly felt less than inclined to disclose the rest and simply stuffed his mouth with more pasta to quench the growl in his stomach.   
  
However, there was one man who wouldn't stand for it. "From whom?" Heero asked firmly, eyes planted upon the cherub-shaped American face.   
  
Duo gave him a startled look as a limp piece of fettuccine hung from his lip, amazed he'd be so forthright and almost embarrassingly blunt in pressing the issue. But as much as his fear of admitting clawed at him, the smoldering intensity of the Wing pilot's stare overcame it. "From whom, Duo?"  
  
"No one in particular."  
  
"Sidestepping."  
  
"Am not," Duo pouted.  
  
Heero calmly placed his coffee cup down while taking a complacent sip and heaved a soft sigh. "I know you, Duo. You may have ridiculously bad luck, but I've yet to see you trip on anything. You're not as clumsy as that, so don't play me for the fool. Please."  
  
"I'm not," he argued, narrowing his eyes unpleasantly.   
  
"You're lying to me, in your own way of keeping your hands clean." The tone was gradually turning harsher in light of Heero's patience ebbing and his pure-hearted concern swelling in it's place. "I want you to tell me the truth. All of it. I'm not going to berate you."  
  
"Unless I keep ' lying', right?" Duo asked with a crooked smile.   
  
It was restrainedly returned. "Of course."  
  
"So... I have to tell you then?" The American flashed a sheepish smile that hoped for an easy solution.   
  
And in response, Heero took an icy drink from his coffee, his voice turning flat and uninviting. "You want to go with us on vacation, don't you?"   
  
That merited an instantaneous frown from across the table, but a grudging eventual answer. With a final sigh of defeat that the prideful Duo Maxwell would only concede to someone like the Perfect Soldier, he dropped his fork and curled his elbows together, leaning his head down and kneading his lanky fingers through his bangs.   
  
"It was a two, three day fling at the most," Duo grimly started, violet eyes glazed over in cheerless nostalgia. "I was passing through Denver, getting sloshed and generally cruising for trouble. I knew it would come. I was asking for it. This… guy, he was involved with a real estate agency and when I asked about property prices, he insisted we discuss it over a beer. I was already thoroughly sloshed, so I though, ' What the hell.' " The American's distant violet eyes came to rest on the safety of the glowing yellow sunlight of the window, visibly delving into memory as he did so.   
  
"I liked him, I admit. So I indulged in one too many beers on his behalf that night. The next, we accidentally crossed paths again and decided to be spontaneous and catch dinner together. I managed to somehow split the check, even though I was pretty much broke. I spent the night at his place and the next night, I was ravenous for something to eat once again. This time I was dead poor and I raided his fridge. And not just a causal raid, I mean. I fucking unloaded his refrigerator.   
  
"Needless to say, he didn't quite find that attractive and when he discovered me 'robbing him out of house and home', I got my just deserts," Duo finished quietly. "Seems everyone knows my weak spot. I snapped at him and he hooked his fist into my stomach and I fell."  
  
"But not to the floor," Heero cut in sharply.  
  
"No," Duo sighed, massaging his temple. "Not right away. There happened to be a staircase on the way to the ground." He shrugged with a forced display of insouciance.  
  
Sharp Prussian eyes follow every minute inflection, every minute gesture that the American was willing to disclose, swiftly analyzing it all and booting up a very displeased expression in response to the overwhelmingly negative evidence. "You didn't deserve that."  
  
Duo sighed, still gazing out the window. He lifted the beverage to his lips and slurped tiredly. "What was I supposed to do, press charges? I was the one stealing his food."   
  
"You were hungry, and he invited you over. It's perfectly legal to have a fast metabolism."  
  
"Yeah," the American muttered, moodily stirring his white pasta. Red-tinted traces of embarrassment boiled to the surface, flushing Duo's face, thinking how readily he'd implied sleeping with another man in front of the engaged Japanese man. Sure, he was sure that Heero had absolutely no problem with Quatre and Trowa's relationship, but the circumstances were different. Those two were like inseparable soulmates and had lavished in each other's presence openly and quite often; Duo was furtive and reluctant to admit his sexuality. It made him feel rather whorish, trying to sidestep it and walk on eggshells around his best friend.   
  
Worse of all, he thought the aforementioned best friend was the most beautiful man he'd ever had the rare luck to lay his eyes upon.   
  
"I'm sorry." A sudden, hushed voice spoke up. Duo glanced up and was met with an apologetic look. "If I made you uncomfortable asking all those questions, I shouldn't have done it."  
  
A quick reappliance of energetic smile and sociability masked whatever arcane expression had lingered on the American's face before. He waved it off insistently. "No, no. It's all right. You deserved to know, I guess. You are my best friend, you know." He cracked a rather brash smirk in an attempt to inject a little sunshine into the rather heavy-toned conversation.   
  
"Well, at least I hope so! You've barely touched your food. Does that mean that you hate eating with me?" The American drawled playfully, leaning across the table and childishly tilting his head in the direction of Heero's averted eyes. "Huh, Hee-chan?" Suddenly, those flash-quick, pickpocket hands flickered up to the Asian man's face and pinched his cheek, tugging so the precise white of his teeth gleamed to the back of his jaw. But faster than even Duo's keen eyes could trace, rough but gentle fingertips, callused by winning losing battle for years on end, whipped up in response. The American yelped mildly in surprise to be pinched identically back, airing out his wisdom teeth, and to be presented with a rather mischievous, rather kittenish smile on Heero Yuy's face. With breathlessness choking his throat, Duo stared blankly, absolutely tossed for a spin. For a few moments time, they remained there, until the tendons in his calf muscles began to ache from bending his knees to lean across the table.  
  
"You lfft gu," Duo slurred. [1]  
  
Heero's smile twisted further across his face, tugging in Duo's grip. "You frursst." [2]  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*** Capítulo Proximo : It's just like good old times for the boys as violence bleeds onto the streets. ***  
  
  
  
[1] For those translation-challenged in Drunkard-ese, a useful guide. "You let go."  
  
[2] "You first."  
  
_Thanks for sticking by my lazy ass. I love you guys!_  
  
  



	8. Old Time Rock and Roll

O-K. Ya got me. Yes, through all of the reviews and the subtle' promptings and my own little Duo muse in my head nagging me, I finally started up again. Yeah yeah, celebrate or whatever. You win. You win, I lose. -.-; Heh. Just kidding. This puppy's been languishing on my hard drive for a while, when I was still contemplating it's fate. I'm still thinking, but I think now I may have the ability and endurance to write it, and still keep other projects going. You know, I think Twelve simply is a victim of circumstance. I was trying to finish this chapter while still struggling to get through The One-Eared Neko in time for the first deadline of June 1st, and that was making me weary. It's hard to write two enormous projects that take all of effort into the writing quality {Not that My Shini, My Ham isn't high-quality, it's not as emotionally and mentally draining as making a good chapter of Twelve is} and not get tired. Plus, by the end of every school year I just don't give a damn about anything, I'm that sick of being straight A in everything, ESPECIALLY that Hell-spawn called Algebra. Honestly, I'd rather take Spanish, German, French, Chinese, and Japanese in one year, if that meant I could skip math. Math bad. Words good.

Enjoy it!

{Especially you, Duo. I'm working a lot for you so you can have your sugar! Bleh. .;}

* * *

Chapter 8

"Old Time Rock and Roll"

Looking back in hindsight, it mustn't have been as cute and clever to Heero as it was to Duo to relentless tease the groom, flashing razzing looks and a high schooler's keen sense for playful ridicule.

After the initial dark topic, they'd agreed somewhere wordlessly in their conversation that neither liked discussing was the basis of spouse abuse and poverty and Duo's potential future with both unpleasant prospects. Somewhere it was communicated that there were better things to discuss, safer things to discuss. Though neither was aware, the both feared the expressions in each other somewhere dimly in their stomachs, feared the implications of an ink-colored bruise and an unveiled string of ribs. So to eliminate that, Duo turned to his addiction, ribbing the stoic little pilot until any kind of amused emotion flashed across his face. Or extremely venomous or violently inclined, and then it was time to quit.

Twisting noodles around the black plastic dinnerware, the American loved to offer some of his own meal to Heero and smirk stubbornly at his polite decline. He would then approach in his pasta attack with utmost technique, pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth and making buzzing noises, waving the spoon back and forth, declaring the jet plane was coming in for a landing. Heero's face froze for an instant, and then he let out a burst of laughter and fending off the fork with a hand. Duo giggled, but leaned forward once again; the jet plane maneuvered around his fingers and caught his mouth at an offhanded moment and snatched success. Heero had turned his head to laughingly ask Duo to knock it off and instead had been filled with alfredo sauce and fettuccine noodles. The American settled back into his chair, laughing victoriously, and gave a startled yap as the Japanese man's retaliation splattered across his nose and dripped down to his lips. Duo paused, the spaghetti noodle lingering on his shocked face, then quickly swiped it off with a pawing motion and slurped it up childishly.

Once the antics of lunch had simmered to a few sarcastic quips and flat witty comments exchanged between them, as it usual was, they finished eating and dashing conversation in between mouthful after mouthful of Italian food. Cleaned up, filled up, and smiling, they left the office and Duo casually slung his arm over the Japanese man's shoulder as they descended the stairs back into the reception office. And at that affectionate gesture, normally the shoulders of the Wing pilot would be taut and half-hostile but seemingly had forgotten all previous reservations. He even gently socked the back of Duo's head after some teasing comment on Heero's usually disheveled hair.

They managed to catch the engrossed Rosy as she scampered back to her desk to retrieve some papers, the impatience for this scheduled customer clear on her flustered face and clenched teeth. The two had in fact just stepped off the last stair and Duo had jauntily pushed it open with his hip, still chattering at Heero with his expressive and inventive hand gestures. A blonde blur moved past them, and Rosy leaned over the reception desk, void one secretary, and wildly shuffled through a pile of starchy papers that hissed and scratched in her search. The Sith sister mumbled unhappily and began to finger through a black file drawer, finally discovering something satisfactorily and turning around with a manila folder clutched to her breast in place of the clipboard. Glimpses of ink numbers peeked from the disheveled mess of papers stuffed inside; probably a disagreement on an accounting figure with a customer had escalated.

Rosy huffed and spun to click back to the fitting room, acknowledging the two pilots with a soured look that meant well. "Man, I hate anal-retentive men," she hissed in explanation.

Duo snorted and jauntily crossed his arms. "You wanna hear about anal-retentive? Imagine trying to sleep when you're going to fight the entire, royally fucked up world and at three in the morning it's nothing but click, click, clikity—"

Before his razzing complaint managed to finish, the Japanese man beside him flashed an exasperated, playful look with the slightest roll of his unnaturally blue eyes and lifted his hand. It came to clamp down unexpectedly over the American's mouth, like a hand covering a child's mouth to stop them from blowing out birthday candles prematurely. "Talking too much after eating causes cramps," he said plainly. "We're gonna go now, Rosy. I can come down and get the clothes whenever they're fitted anytime before Friday afternoon."

She shook her head slightly, stifling the amusement on her sunny face. "Oh no, I don't wanna put you out of your way. You've got a lot of preparation to do, if I've heard correctly. I can drop them off at the house." Still captured and squirming, Duo glanced back and forth at a dizzying speed as he shifted and gauged Heero's response. It was surprisingly gracious and marked with an unrestrained display of friendly teeth and an amused snort. Actual friendly behavior. Where was the National Geographic team and arsenal of historians when the really amazing things happened?

"Thank you, Rosy," Heero said, bowing slightly. "I've already got my hands full."

"You don't need to say a thing," she quipped. "Just let me say goodbye to Quatre and Trowa and that darling dog of, and it's a done deal, honey." The Japanese man bowed again, and Rosy again femininely bid goodbye, her ornamental nails bold red and delicate. As Heero began to tow Duo alongside him, still holding him securely with a palm silencing his big mouth, she waved to her brother's captured best friend as well. "Have fun, guys! I'll probably drop by noon-ish tomorrow!"

"Alright." Releasing Duo at the glass doors, the American was free to smack his liberated mouth and wave goodbye once again to the sunny blonde woman. The mastortailor returned it in a wave, before she was forced to attend to business and trotted away. Heero, meanwhile had already passed through the doors and the American turned his head slightly to notice there wasn't another pilot in his sidevision, but there was a blob of fabric flying his way. Clawing his coat off his face, he conceded a smile and tossed the jacket over his shoulder. The other man already had his slung over his shoulders and was pushing through the second set of glass doors, brushing by loose strands of golden tinsel hanging from the doorframe.

"Hey, wait up!"

As a gust of cold winter wind snaked its way through the open door, Heero paused and held the door open for his comrade. It was somewhat amusing to drag him along and see if he could still remain on his toes and on par with his own pace after all the years apart, the Wing pilot thought, and it was only fair in light of all the playful jokes and wickedly kittenish pranks that he'd received only since he'd been newly reunited with him. The American adjusted his jacket finally as he passed through the doors. "You shouldn't walk so fast like that," he said, his words marked by puffs of steam in the air.

"Oh, yeah? I would like to hear why."

Duo prodded his side once, jokingly. "You'll get cramps. No brisk walking is recommended right after you eat a large meal."

"Or snow," Heero added with all innocence.

But even the most alert Duo was unable to spot that coming, unable to read the tiny hints of plans storming in his comrade's face and asked the obvious question. "What? I didn't eat—" He spat unhappily when the cold slush was pressed to his mouth by Heero's hand with enough force that if he had opened his mouth to pronounce the word snow' he would have really eaten it. Luckily, Heero wasn't too much of an obsessive joker and easily let go of his prank and let the snowball thud to the slush on the sidewalk.

Duo wiped his wrist against his lips and tried to put on a discouraging look. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to make it believable enough. "That was mean. I should have seen that one with a blind eye and another that doesn't work coming from a mile away, but it was still mean," he drawled. He mimicked a hurt, infant expression instead when he knew that the flat look he received wasn't conceived with false anger.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry. It's already forgotten."

"Forgiven, I think you mean."

Duo tilted his head almost ridiculously with a sly smirk. "What are you in such a hurry for, anyway? Don't you think it's more fun to spend time with me instead of being at work? What's up?"

"Paperwork." He shrugged as if it was mundanely simple. "I've got a lot things to take care of. Scheduling, inventory, contacting all the invitees—things like that. I think I'll organize all of it when we get home, at least before we have to leave. It'll be much too stressful trying to fit anything formal in our schedule, once I get it finalized."

"Ooh," Duo taunted, knitting his fingers behind hid back and stretching with a catty tilt to his face as they both began to stroll in time towards the car, a rhythm they'd developed wordlessly between them sometime too far back to guess at. "I can see through all your innuendoes, Heero. What you meant to say is that we're going to be having so much delirious fun with wine coolers and endless days in the Cancun sun that no one will even remember planning a wedding?"

"Sorry again, but, it's not going to be entirely all sunshine and beaches."

Duo frowned, but only microscopically. So no forgetting then? Well—

"There'll be snow and other things," Heero continued casually.

And forgetting, maybe? He prodded again in a mentally depressing singsong.

Suddenly, the other pilot had his deep blue eyes drained on the American's face with a half-surprised tone spread across the planes of his face. "Forgetting what?" he asked, assuming nothing and driving a sharp fear into some vague place in Duo's chest with his beautiful and horribly innocent face. He realized with a similar pain that he must have blabbered that carelessly out loud and an effortless, lifeless grin came to his rescue before irreparable damage was dealt.

The American shrugged, his breath pluming on the wind. He knew that his smile didn't even reach his eyes. "It's nothing." And those suspicions soon became clear in Heero's face, which iced and hardened slightly when he sensed something wrong within the hollow grin he received. But before he could speak up, if he really had summed up the courage to do so, Duo nimbly cut in.

"Hey, think I could drive the car for once? I swear I still remember how do drive a car, if not how to pilot my old mobile suit," he nearly chirped in his fear. Eventually, the taciturn, appraising look disappeared and Heero seemed to erase the out-of-place comment from his memory and nodded. But not right away.

"Duo, are you alright?"

"Sure," he lied, finding it harder to smile under the weight of a suspicious terrorist's half-glare. And that seemed to bury another uncomfortable topic and things continued on smoothly.

Through the chilly winds dashed with snowflakes, they both walked to the black Camaro and at first Heero instinctually strolled over to the driver side when Duo piped up playfully and called him a shameless cheat. The Japanese man apologized and slammed the door shut instead of crawling inside. The pilots were just switching in a ritualistic pattern vaguely linked back to dark days in sweltering cockpits and confusing rampages led in outer space, when a shrill series of electronic beeps could be hear from inside the car. Heero and Duo, both clenching their jackets tightly around their sides to keep warm, stood in front of the white-dusted hood and glanced inside. The noise turned to a low bass and crackled audibly through the glass, before cutting with a sharp electronic sound. A few seconds later the same series of noises repeated itself, and a mild wave of confusion gripped Duo's face and caused him to furrow an eyebrow. "What's that?—"

"The radio," Heero said with a sudden breathlessness.

"What? That doesn't sound like—" He had shifted his gaze back to the profile of his old comrade and found a disturbing expression plastered over his stoic, hard-set face. It was a fearful look and the battered butterflies in Duo's stomach sickly swarmed in his stomach, this time because of an intuition of danger. Something was going to happen, he knew it, thinking darkly. His relentless luck had found him, and the onset was just sinking in.

"That's my emergency contact," Heero said abruptly and dashed to the driverside door. With a frantic clash of metal locks hitching, he nearly ripped the handle off in flinging the door open. He slid inside rather recklessly, a shrill electronic cry spilling into the winter air once again and the harsh crackle of a male voice spitting through the radio receiver. In an instant, Duo had crawled in the opposite sidedoor and his breath baited in fearful anticipation as Heero snatched the speaker off the hook and punched a button roughly. Garbled, crackling words of frenzy spilled out, repeating "Heero! Pick up the goddamned thing already! Damn it, you ass, Yuy, pick up—"

"I'm here!" he snapped hurriedly, tersely baring his teeth as he took sudden long-winded breaths.

Duo had never seen him so easily upset. He fidgeted in the passenger seat as icy winds howled over the ajar metal doorframes. The strange loathing in his voice was horribly thick as he spoke, adding a distinct nasal Japanese accent. Duo winced, knowing very well that it took a lot for Heero's flat, Americanized tone to turn venomous and faintly Asian. "What the hell is going on? This is my emergency contact and I'm off-duty besides, so this'd better be immeasurably important, Mayfield."

A keening of a beep cut his transmission to make room for the static-laced answer of his colleague, his teeth hovering close to the black mesh and his stormy blue eyes brooding up a stew of past altercations and tensions between this impatient officer.

The man called Mayfield cried back, "Why the fuck would I call _you_ if it wasn't?! You're not much of a conversationalist!"

"Just get on with it," Heero growled at the microphone, unable to cut into the other man's transmission.

"Listen, there's some lunatic kid bomber threatening to blow the brains out of everybody down that at that stupid crackhead hangout, by the fucking foundling home! His only buddies just got booked for meth dealing for twenty and he just snapped!"

Fire boiled in those usually unimaginably cool blue eyes and he punched the button again until stressed tendons flared beneath his skin. "Why are you calling me, Mayfield? Get someone who's armed for this kind of thing! I'm retiring, remember?"

"Like the fuck I care! You're still here, you'll still answer a dispatch!"

"What about Lewis? He was going to be plainclothes-ing for that meth operation all this week, wasn't he?"

"Lewis is down, Yuy! He chased him down there, but he said the kid fucking shot him and pistol-whipped him. Knocked the goddamned weapon out of his hand, that little motherfuker punk." Even Duo was surprised at how tastelessly the man used his profanity. He'd been a little crass at times in his life, but he'd never been quite so random with all his swearing.

"Is he alright?" Heero insisted, but his pure-hearted concern soured once more into a highly displeased frown that displayed his teeth dangerously.

"Fuck if I know, Yuy. Just get over there!"

"You're the closest to them, Mayfield."

"No, _you_ are," the crackling voice growled in a fierce return. "Some shitter just failed his driver's education and decided to celebrate by stringing up six cars on the main way, so I'm stuck here! Besides, you're the fucking _soldier_—snap his neck or do something pretty with a gun—I don't care what, Yuy! Stop being such a pansy and do a little off-duty work, come on."

"Stop being such a pansy and pull your head out of your ass," Heero barked simply before the radio clattered on the dashboard, the curly-cue connecting wire pulled from the socket at a simple tug of that immense strength. The harsh discord of static died in mid-hiss and distant howls of wintry wind rose to take its boisterous place. Silently, Duo sat faithfully in the passenger seat, waiting for Heero to make his decision on a very delicate situation, and didn't make a sound. Heero sat up tensely, and sighed as he picked up the speaker, pieced the wire and microphone together again, and promptly hung it up. Looking over, his war-worn eyes had glazed over almost icily, waiting for Duo's response in a like manner. However, it was the American who finally broke the silence and stretched an arm to lock the elbow and clasp the back of his neck half-nervously.

"He really doesn't like you, this Mayfield guy."

Heero lifted a morosely amused eyebrow, looking down at the radio. "You noticed."

"Well," Duo accentuated his response with a flare of a grin, "aside from all that lovey-dovey banter there, I say you two must really loathe each other."

"Well, he hates me, and I hate it when he tries to belittle me. Call it fate," Heero tried to joke evenly.

"Come on, don't tell me you actually put up with that. What about urges to just kick him in the—"

"No, Duo," the Wing pilot sighed tiredly.

"I've got two strong legs, ya know."

"I can let you go getting your hopes up, Duo. I wouldn't let you have all the glory and none of the fall. It wouldn't be fair." He tried again to be just as warm and engaging as Duo was, as Duo made him want to be in return, but it was only tainted by the rising exhaustion going through him resulting from the abrasive personality of his rival officer.

Duo smirked in return, but withdrew from chattering uselessly. "Alright, now tell me what the hell you or he did. I wanna know what happened between you two. I've never seen you actually look like you wanted to detail someone's head with your fist without that person threatening all of humanity. Well, not back then at least."

"Yeah, well, sometimes that old feeling is just channeled into other victims," he added resentfully to himself. "Mayfield—Aiden Mayfield—was the hot upstart at the station for a long time. He was treated like a form of royalty. Years ago, he suffered an injury that placed him in the hospital for a considerable amount of time. His muscles atrophied and prematurely aged him. Now he's restricted him to limping around, although his mobility has improved over time." He occasionally glanced over to Duo, who nodded comprehensively along with the story. "I was hired in his stead when Relena and I moved to Seattle. John was eager to recruit an old Gundam pilot for his force, and needless to say, I easily got the position."

"Lemme guess. Mr. Pissy-Fit didn't want you tramping onto his territory, huh?"

"He blames me for his injury as a way to vent his frustrations, but it's blame nonetheless. There's no possibility that I could have thrown him at somebody's windshield. I understand; he's bitter that he's no longer the prized veteran and a twenty-something punk who can barely be called a war veteran' is taking that place." Beneath his disheveled dark hair, Heero closed his eyes and shrugged innocently, displaying his still-sinewy, precise movements under his jacket. "I don't blame him for it, but—"

"Nobody likes being treated like shit," Duo finished succinctly and sweetly for him.

Heero nodded solemnly, in the way he'd done so many years ago. It was comforting for the American to see a familiar gesture amongst an unusual bitterness.

"Hate at first sight. How revoltingly romantic," Duo added craftily.

"I guess," Heero murmured, unable to resist the forerunner of a tiny smile.

"Chh. Oh man, get a room, why don'tcha? You sound so happy to have heard from him again," the Deathscythe pilot teased, socking his comrade's shoulder, not allowing that beautiful sliver of happiness to disappear on him too soon. "Now, come on. Don't play any of your little games with me, Officer Yuy. Nobody's got any time for them."

"Huh?" Heero asked innocently, his shoulders half-guarding his neck as he narrowly wrung his hands on the steering wheel, although his eyes weren't a drop of innocent. "What are you talking about?"

The American abruptly leaned over and rummaged a jangling set of keys from Heero's jacket pocket with all the prowess and pure nerve of a turn-of-the-century New York young pickpocket scrapping to live on the streets, or just one from L-2. And equally swiftly, he'd jammed the right key into the ignition and revved the engine. Glowing lights came to life, highlighting the black print tallying up to one-hundred-and-twenty miles per hour. He pulled back with a smug overtone to his smirk and settled into his seat before securing his seatbelt.

Feeling the weight of eyes on the side of his face, Duo folded his arms and tilted his head. "And don't look at me like that, Heero."

"You don't have to come, Duo. It's not your obligation." The Wing pilot finally relented and his palms wrung tighter around the leather steering wheel. "I know this has nothing to do with you, and I'd never willingly endanger you. It's my fault. I'm honestly sorry about this—"

Finally, the American decided it he'd had enough blithering apologies to last him pretty much for a lifetime and lifted his arm to shut him up. A raised thumb and extended finger in the childish mime of a gun was pointed at the Japanese man's startled face across the car. A trademark grin bore at his defenses and Duo's sharp voice kept him from apologizing once again, for another unneeded time.

"Man, you Japanese! Are you always this humble?—Anyway, listen, Heero," he started. "You're a very sweet guy, but you can still be incredibly dense. Whatever problem you think I have with coming along with you while you play Superman and save people's lives, drop it. Or else I'm gonna hafta shoot you to put you out of your misery. Nothing is going to stop me from helping you if you need it—not even you. I said I was destined to be killed by you, and nobody else. So don't worry, I'm not going to get killed anytime soon. Especially not by some riley kid. Besides, I'm your backup. Only fools and assholes don't use their backup."

For a moment, the other pilot remained still as stone, visibly contemplating the assertive words of his friend, generally looking a little dazed. The American's slyly angled mouth widened and he mimed a gunshot with sound effects included, laughing to himself.

"Thanks, Duo," Heero said finally.

"Aw, don't make me cry. Where else would I be when you needed my help?" he drawled in return, leaning over and spilling his long braid of hair over his shoulder as he briefly jabbed the horn and blared one at an unsuspecting man walking past, who jolted as he passed with shopping bags in hand. Duo smiled and looked over at Heero again. "Now, can we please get going? For the children's sake?"

He received a sideways look and a faint smirk resisting itself in return. "You pose a strong argument."

The American folded his arms smugly. "I was a soldier too, Heero, so don't think I can't handle one."

"Alright. I understand." With that, he put the Camaro into drive, glanced levelly over his shoulder, and practically kicked the acceleration pedal. Wheels screamed unpleasantly beneath them and hissed on the slush covering the pavement, threatening to spin them out. Heero turned sharply and cut into an empty lane as the orange needle hovered higher and higher. While his one hand clenched the steering wheel and kept the car from careening into traffic, he pulled down his seatbelt, held it with his teeth as he positioned his arm to pull it down again, and clipped it into place. Duo, already buckled in, already had nearly hit the window as the car had turned and suddenly doubted something in the pit of his stomach. The butterflies were nervous once again, although he didn't think it was about Heero's speeding-ticket style of driving.

Ahead of them, a little green car and a yellow and white taxi idled at a red light and Heero's leg was loath to remove itself from that accelerator pedal. Momentarily, he glanced over at the dashboard and the passenger side compartment. "Duo."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to have to stop, or run anyone down because I'm going so fast. They need a warning. Get the siren out." He momentarily tore his eyes away from the road to look at the glove compartment. "It's in there."

"A siren?" Duo smiled. "Wow. Looks like I really am riding with a genuine cop. I should watch my behavior." Rambling on humorously to himself, he popped open the glove compartment and shuffled through the random papers and scraps that seemed out of place in Heero Yuy's anal-retentive nature to pull out the siren. It wasn't as impressive as the reflective, red and blue ones on an issue police car, but it would do justice, Duo thought wryly, smirking and rolling down his window.

As Heero smoothly ran a red light and gunned down the next stretch of road, his comrade in the passenger seat reached out into the cold winter air, hooked his arm, and stuck the siren securely on top of the car. Realizing just how frosty the wind could be when rushing by at a very healthy speed, he quickly ducked back in and rolled the window back up. The American settled back into his seat just quickly enough as Heero cranked the steering wheel to bolt down a side street, giving a few law-abiding drivers the scare of their lives as he thundered by in front of them. The siren eventually began to take effect and there were much less incidents with drivers taken off guard by the Gundam-influenced driving style of one Seattle cop; they started pulling over and giving him the room he sorely needed.

Duo gave his best courteous smiles and even saluted a few as they went by, an arm slung on the windowsill. "Sorry my countrymen, but duty calls," he said sweetly. "Yep, better get your sorry selves off the road before you become just another statistic. Death by Heero Yuy."

"Duo," Heero chided laughingly, though it was hardly anything close to rowdy. His eyes left the road only a second to give his humorous partner a partial _look _that told him to stop pestering the citizens he had spent the last few years protecting. Then those dark blue eyes were glued to the pavement again, guiding their makeshift cop car along the one-way street.

"You don't think you should be someplace close to the speed limit in snowy road conditions, Heero?"

"Snow never bothered me," he chimed flatly. "And how would I know to go slow? I'm a pilot. I don't believe in that kind of thing."

The American gave a healthy laugh at the humor, which clearly was taken off from his own, with the exaggerated emotion in his normally collected, rolling voice. Folding his arms, Duo leaned back in the seat with a crafty look. "Sure. We never dealt with any crosswalks in space, and we saved this planet, didn't' we? Why should we obey some painted white lines?" He laughed again, and looked distantly out onto the road again. "That's just the kind of thinking I had in mind, too."

Whatever comradely happiness had been stirred up by their short banter was shortly eaten away as the thick traffic that had plagued Heero's unhappy rival soon caught up with the two and their black Camaro. A thick frown soon overtook the Japanese man's face as he surveyed the impenetrable line of cars that stretched down the intersecting street, the one that was key to getting to the scene of the crime in progress. There were a few idle seconds that lapsed in the car, with the driver gaping blankly at how easily his alternate route had gone down in flames, and the passenger giving out a low whistle of admiration. He had to give the traffic jam it's credit—it was awfully clever if it was trying to slow the police down. After that, Heero let his head bow onto the steering wheel as he let out low strings of curses in a language Duo luckily didn't understand. The American shifted back into his seat from revering the packed streets surrounding them, and warily turned that gaze toward his partner unsure what it would invoke in the strangely emotional Heero he had stumbled across only that morning.

He wasn't surprised to see that Heero was facing him, silently waiting for him to turn and look at him. Also waiting for him was that cold blue-eyed calculating expression, the one that had patiently awaited a signal to move from him, back when they were still armed and dangerous and anxious to make a difference, back when they had fought a war no high school age children should have fought. And they had won. Now, sitting in the present in Heero Yuy's car, that look again waited for his signal. Unspoken and undeniable, it was already decided between the two that they were going to continue, and when Duo gave him a subtle Shinigami smile, Heero rapidly put the car in park and pulled the keys from the ignition, letting the engine quiet.

They both bolted from their doors simultaneously, moving like they hadn't for a long time, perfectly in tune and perfectly aware of their initiative. In the way that they had worked together like gears turning one another and used the other's strengths to their advantage, effortlessly, easily, effectively, and absolutely, Duo had considered the perfect rhythm that was collaborating in missions with Heero to be even better than sex, in some instances. Okay, a lot of instances.

Moving like they hadn't for too long, Duo thought with a smile, following Heero as the Japanese man sprinted between traffic then leapt over the fence blocking the alley directly across from him. Too long.


	9. Young and Stupid

Chapter 9

"Young and Stupid"

"What the hell do you mean you didn't get a gun? You're trying to tell me that you never have a gun with you, that's it, isn't it? Jesus, Heero! What the hell are you thinking? You could get seriously hurt someday! You're a cop, you're supposed to be armed!"

Had they not been sprinting along an iced alleyway, nearly stride for stride now that Duo's legs had grown long enough to match Heero's, he would have taken the time to sigh as well as roll his eyes, but he could only settle for one. And luckily, his companion didn't notice it, otherwise he probably would have done something other than snap at him in disbelief. Heero took a glance to the side at the face of his disgruntled partner, then back to the fence approaching them at the other end of the alley. It had been sealed off to ward off belligerent teenagers and troublemakers from harassing the apartment buildings on either side, but a ten-foot steel fence was not, and never would be, a trouble for Heero Yuy. Taking a firm step, he launched himself up at the top bar, grabbed metal between the unpleasant looking prongs, and drove effortlessly over it.

He rolled on his shoulder up onto his haunches and looked back at Duo. He wasn't as extremely physical as himself, so he was climbing instead of jumping, and after a moment's display of agility and his experience his time spent as an orphan dodging angry shopkeepers, he was walking up beside Heero, mumbling something about getting old. "Shit, man. I could have done that in two steps a decade ago," he mumbled to himself, putting a hand in the crook of his back and pressing forward to crack his back. It popped in a little symphony running down his spine, and Duo sighed tiredly and muttered again. "Fences suck."

Heero stood up and started running again, and Duo fell in line behind him. He had no idea of where they were headed, only that one of Heero's co-workers was definitely not in good shape somewhere in the city, and they were going there on foot. That would be thanks to the sudden influx of traffic due to some unfortunate driver, clogging all the streets that would lead to the site of the bomb threat by vehicle. Leaving them, unfortunately, forced to continue on foot in the snow and ice of a Northwestern December. For a second, he momentarily forgot about the ex-Wing pilot telling him that he would have to be extra careful since he was unarmed, but his memory came back very quickly. Very quickly.

"Hey," Duo said between breaths, running half a stride behind Heero, "don't think I let the fact you're going into a hostage situation without any kind of weapon slip my mind, bud! What the hell are you thinking?"

"I was thinking that you could go a little faster," Heero deadpanned, in that nasal way that indicated he had no intention to argue with him, or the liberty to. "Or is it time we put you out to pasture, Shinigami?"

"Low, Yuy! Low!" Duo even took the energy to raise his index finger and point it at him. The tiny amount of deceleration that the motion took was just enough for Heero to notice, and enough to spur him to turn slightly as he continued running down the slush-covered sidewalks. He glanced once up to the American's cold-pinched face, then his eyes trailed down to his arms. He snatched him by the sleeve of his jacket and yanked him forward, just enough so that he could get a decent grip on his wrist.

"Hey, I don't need you to drag me along, Heero," Duo said teasingly, though he secretly relished it, any contact he could get he would lap up. "I'm all grown up, ya know. I can tie my own shoes and everything!"

"I'm aware of that."

"Well, alright," Duo said smugly, "then you'd be so kind as to explain why you don't carry any arms on you, wouldn't you? Right, my _friend_?"

Between the puffs of steam marked every breath, Heero said, still going steadily along at ninety percent down the slushy sidewalk, "Duo?"

"Yeah?"

"Just shut up and run." An almost gloating, smug smirk crossed his face at the blunt remark, and Heero also propelled the American forward until he was running beside him, then released his hold to turn the corner at the end of the block.

"Don't you go blaming me if you end up getting shot full of lead, then, almighty hotshot!" he managed to get in as a final word.

As Duo turned as well, his hair trailing behind him in a wide arc of brown, he could see just how much of a ripple effect the single accident had had on traffic running through the city. He could see it, because they were dashing straight past the sight of said collision as they rounded the corner.

Scattered through the intersection were various gleaming, snowy scraps from the six cars bearing the most damage. The entire front of a red Mercury had been practically sheared off by the inattention another car, showering the road with chunks nearly the size of Quatre Raberba Winner. The other four cars had swerved in mindless panic and buckled into one another in the resulting chaotic blurs of cars, and they were dusted with glass from the demolished windshield of a minivan. Of course, a scrap of hull flying off of impact and spearing itself into the passenger headrest had demolished said windshield. The scraps of metal from the Mercury, dusted in a fine layer of snow, looked like macabre twists of candy, red and gray and silver.

Luckily, Duo noticed, none of the passengers seemed seriously hurt. All were gathered on the opposite sidewalk with a small crowd of the warm-hearted Samaritans who had gotten out of their cars to tend to the collision victims. There was a mother, most likely from the speared minivan, clutched a grade-schooler to her side as she held a cloth to her head, bleeding from a few minor lacerations. But no blood on the snow. No death spilled out over the snow. That's what gave Duo a swell of relief, and the sprinting push to catch up with his single-minded partner.

Heero had continued on past the collision site with a minimal glance—he had his own disaster in the making to tend to, with a helping hand in the form of his old wartime comrade hot on his heels as they twisted through the crowds gathered on the sidewalk to witness the metal carnage on the streets. As they ran, Duo could see Heero pulling away slightly from him, while he stumbled and slowed to avoid running into a few teenagers and an old woman scowling at the scene with her failing eyes, and apologized on the run.

"Sorry bout that, sir!" he sputtered, after bashing into a middle-aged man carrying a heavy load of shopping bags twisted around his wrists and rolling to the side quickly to keep up his momentum. He could feel a disapproving, irritable scowl inevitably come his way and burn momentarily at his back.

"Darn kids!" the man grumbled at him loudly, shoving his hands tightly into his jacket pocket and hunching his shoulders to keep warm as he trudged along with groceries in tow.

Duo chuckled out loud at that, knowing neither he nor Heero had never really been kids, or at least normal ones, but very young soldiers to be. And what did that make them now? Duo snorted to himself while his mind churned and deliberated and remembered to keep running on the side. They were old men in the body of young men, with so much damage beneath their belts that they had to buy new ones. Keeping his eyes glued carefully to Heero's back, he extended his stride to chew up the distance between them.

Suddenly, the Japanese man tried to come to a sudden halt to prevent dashing out in front of a car, and ironically creating another frustrating collision as they had just seen, and found nothing but ice beneath his shoes. Duo watched him slip forward in an awkward jerk, unable to help him immediately since he was still making up the space between them. _Maybe if he wasn't so damned centered on being the fastest of the two of us, I'd be there to grab him, huh? _Duo thought exasperatedly, slowly coming to realize, watching Heero's normally graceful line of balance contort much more than it should have, that his stoic best friend was much off balance more than he thought.

He felt a moment's panic as it seemed that Heero Yuy—the teenaged assassin who'd struck fear into hearts throughout the near solar system, battled the finest trained warriors and laughed as they were incinerated, saved the entire Earth Sphere from a nuclear winter and massive destruction, and hell, the only man who'd been able to steal from him, an expert on thievery, right from under his nose—might slip and crack his head open on the ice and that would be the end of him. Not surprisingly, he didn't, but after catching himself on the streetlamp beside him, Duo could the silvery puffs of steam coming out in a startled pant.

"Dude, Heero," Duo drawled as he came to a much safer stop beside him, "you okay?"

He was patting him comfortingly on the back on his half-wrinkled denim jacket, noting incredulously just how startled the possibly disastrous slip had made him. Either he was just abnormally high strung today—which didn't seem like the case this time—or he'd really been spooked by it, had really lost control of himself for a moment. Aside from the cold there was a half-panicked flush to his face that was waning down, but he was still breathing rather quickly for just a measly scare. Not that he would be accusing the Perfect Soldier—and he meant stunningly perfect—of being out of shape, but he definitely had slipped up.

"Please tell me you're not getting old and feeble on me. You looked kind of little rattled by that; you okay?" Duo asked, teasing him gently as was almost routine for him, with a very detectable current of concern beneath it. A furtive way of asking him if he was all right without the risk of sounding weak around a man who had once would have nothing to do with dealing with other soldiers' weaknesses.

"I'm fine," he insisted. He swallowed with difficulty and eventually unwrapped a steel-like arm from the metal streetlamp he'd used as an emergency support. "Just a little anxious."

"Well then, you oughta slow down. There's no reason you should let a patch of ice get the better of you, that's almost pathetic. Just remember that you can't help anybody if you go and get killed first, ya know. That's basically how it works."

"I said I'm fine," Heero insisted again once he'd loosened up enough to release his tight grip on the metal post and glanced over to Duo once as the standard confirmation they'd used in the old days to make sure he was fully prepared to move out. Of course, by now, whatever tiny sliver of apprehension he might have shown had faded back into the protection of the steely concentration he was infamous for, at least within the circle of surviving mobile suit pilots. "Let's go."

As soon as Heero started loping off again, Duo couldn't help but release a wicked smile at his back as he followed. "Are you sure you should be straining yourself like this, old man? Did you remember to take your nitroglycerin this morning? You just might work yourself up into a heart attack or something," he teased, and didn't care if the object of that razzing had been listening or not, because he was definitely not getting a response. He could read it in the way he could see the tiny lines in Heero's neck tensing up. Knowing him, he might have even rolled his eyes a little were no one would see, and that only made Duo snicker again.

* * *

Low and behold, the building under attack was empty after Heero and Duo had waltz in through the front door. They had taken only a little longer to reach their destination on foot than it would have taken in the car, had there not been insane congestion.

Down a narrow, winding street lined thick with neglected community buildings—neighboring a moldy, dusty law office that had long been emptied and housed a cardboard sign reading "_Rent Space: Cheap_" in the corner of one grimy building, and a dilapidated tenement building sitting aside a community education building lamenting its similar state—stood a single level, brick edifice with one bland glass door to welcome in visitors. It was curled slightly around the far end of the unkempt cul-de-sac, and in comparison it was like an estate on the French Rivera.

There were few windows, but where there were, instead of simply displaying shadows, half-functioning oscillating fans or the wooden boards blocking them out, there were crayon-colored pictures of sunshine and stick-people families and construction paper butterflies and smiling faces. The sidewalk was strewn with faint memories of the kaleidoscopic chalk images in canary yellow and sky blue and tickle-me-pink that had been there before snow had fallen. The slush had been shoveled aside and there were tiny bicycles locked up against the rack, a few icy streamers fluttering weakly in the cold December breeze. Wet footprints dotted the salted cement, and the glass door was doused in dozens upon dozens of minute handprints.

Duo had stared at the fingerprints while Heero stood behind him on the steps, making it a process to send a vicious stare into every dark corner in their radius, scoping out for any possible threats.

It was public knowledge that they'd stepped into a part of town that had become corrupted in the last few years, the nights quickly filling up with young and very stupid kids with very stupid habits and dangerous toys. Heero had been patrolling more than once in the very area, and had seen the devilish intents in the eyes of the teenagers as he passed by. A kind of no-good, wicked smirk that only a foolish civilian could possess. It had been a welcome change from the murderous glares of enemies, but it didn't change the fact they still loved to cause trouble and it was born in him to snuff out those with bad intent. Snorting softly at the memory, Heero walked fluidly up the stairs, in the coiled manner he did on any mission, and stopped behind Duo.

For a second, the American hesitated, placed his hand over one of the childish handprints, took a deep breath, and opened the door forcefully, growling something about, "the bastard who dared to endanger children" and "giving him the unholy beating of his life." Heero's face darkened for a second at the trailing words, and he followed the American's motivated strides down the hallway, his hands loose and ready at his sides as he stole inside behind his comrade.

The foyer was small and warmly decorated with another wave of crayon-fashioned pictures like welcoming wallpaper. Tiny, multicolored tacks held them each by their upper corners, and as the icy breeze followed inside, the sheets of paper fluttered until they hung horizontally in the air. In light of the situation, Duo thought they looked like the mouths of kids opening in screams, in silent pleas that would not be heard.

He shivered slightly and clapped his hands on his arms once to warm them up. "I don't like this at all, Heero," he said, and made an awkward scoffing laugh beneath his breath. "It's almost too much like good old times, you know? There aren't bodies to step over, or injured men bleeding and screaming to put out of their misery, but like reopening wounds that never really healed." The pessimistic, self-deprecating laughs that slipped out in the length of the dimly lit hallway echoed as if they were passing through an empty wormhole back into a time of desperation and warfare they had left behind long ago.

Needless to say, Duo felt the shivers running rampant and playing concertos on the vertebrae of his spine. He'd only felt them the first time piloting Deathscythe in battle, and watching the Wing Gundam plummeting backwards toward Earth and glowing coal red in the atmosphere, chased by a massive chunk of Colony, and carrying his best friend in it.

Behind him, Heero was stalking along silently, always tossing looks behind his shoulders and past Duo's head. Eventually, he spoke quietly, addressing the American in a neutral, cautiously soft voice. "If things get out of control, you'll take all the hostages you can and get them away from here. Neither you nor I want any of the children to be hurt. Their safety comes first."

"Definitely," Duo said without hesitation. He shuddered again, thanking whatever murky being was the Shinigami that he claimed to channel in battle, now that the pictures had ended. It was a sinister image, despite the bright crayon colors. "And, of course, I'll have to grab you too," he added as the hallway split up to two directions: the main hall stayed its course and opened up into a wider hallway of classrooms, and the other ascended up a darkened, twirling staircase into the second level. A broad painted red stripe went across the stairwell wall, a rich, earthy brown shade below and a creamy off-white above it. Block letters were chipping slightly just below a tiny window, reading, "Level 2."

Duo paused slightly, squinting down the dim, empty hall. The lights were inauspiciously turned off, and only a faint light sifted in through the windows, screened gray by the cloudy, snowy skies. The American paused for a moment without breathing, just soaking up the absolute silence of the place. It was wrong on an almost primal level. Children should be laughing somewhere. Somewhere.

"Where are they?"

"It's too quiet in here. He must have taken them somewhere to keep them all in check," Heero informed him, bewaring the ominous tone his words took on their own. "Too many phones in here, too many possible weapons for self-defense. He would have taken them somewhere secluded or inaccessible if he didn't want trouble."

Twisting slightly to pin a slightly confused, dark violet gaze on the Japanese pilot halting beside him, who was as silent as an assassin shuffling up behind his victim, he contorted his lips awkwardly. "What? It kind of sounds like you know this asshole personally, or something?"

"Let's just say it's strong intuition," Heero muttered. "He's described as distraught, disturbed even, by events he can't possibly control or reverse. He wants attention and maybe even a sick sort of pity for what he's doing—"

"Kind of like the mindset a terrorist, huh? Kind of like us in a way."

"Aa," Heero agreed quietly, his response barely a brush of air out of his lips. Just as suspicious, his eyes nit-picked every hint of life, every pair of shoes lined up against the wall, every pink and white Barbie backpack and every blue and red Spiderman backpack, for silent hints as to what had happened. "But in our case, it was the orphans who were the aggressors, not the hostages," he commented calmly, twisting around to stare at a simple finger-painting of a pink and yellow smiley face over looking a blue and purple sea, dotted with red fish and a big black whale spouting water.

"Orphans?" the sound of Duo's unusually lifeless voice echoing between the narrow expanse made the other pilot turn cautiously, confronted by a face that was a few shades paler than was sound. "What do you mean, orphans'?" Duo demanded sharply, though the expression in his eyes suggested his mind was miles and miles from a lonesome brick building on Earth.

When Heero hesitated, his voice cut at him again, this time filling with frustration. In the narrow hallway, they had been stepping close, but soon the American had almost invaded his space, planting his feet firmly to the floorboards, narrowing his eyes in a mixture of distress and bubbling fury inches from Heero's face. "What the hell do you mean, orphans'? Answer me. What the hell did you mean? You distinctly never mentioned a thing to me about us liberating an orphanage, Heero."

Slightly disturbed but the rattled expression the American wore, Heero kept his voice even and low, his militaristic clock always ticking and always aware of the fact that danger could be lurking behind the next corner, awaiting to kill him. "Mayfield called and informed us that the bomber was holding an orphanage hostage, Duo," he droned in his semi-nasal tone, able to feel distant traces of his comrade's erratic, heated breath on his face.

"No, he didn't," Duo automatically protested, drawing his eyebrows together drastically. "He said it was a foundling home!"

"They're one in the same."

"Well, you could have fucking told me that!"

He furrowed his brows in mild confusion. "I thought that you understood."

"I understood the little kid part. Oh yeah, the bright-eyed urchins in trouble part came in loud and clear," Duo ranted in desperation, suddenly flushing dangerously, tossing his arms up to the side as he spun about and snapped at the darkness hovering near the ceiling, "But nobody had the decency to know to mention to me that they were _orphans_!"

Flickers of concern became one steady line of apprehension running through the Asian pilot's face, and he consciously put on a sympathizing frown and a hand reached out to his shoulder, beckoning, "Duo—" It was almost frightening, how radically different the familiar, warmly attractive face of his comrade was when it was consumed by an almost rabid sensation. His paled face was quickly flushing with blood again, and his grin was jagged as broken glass.

"I'll kill him," Duo snorted incredulously to no one, staring blankly off into a place and time that Heero couldn't see. "I'll kill him, I'll make him beg for Death for this, that asshole! Then jail'll look pretty peachy in comparison, won't it, brat! You'll be on your hands and knees pleading for that option!"

Heero had long grown accustomed to such talk, to murderous tones and desperate cries that never really left his brain, even after they had died or been incinerated or injured beyond compare, but somehow to hear the same desperation in Duo's tone, in such a peaceful time, drove a stake through his chest. "Duo, stop talking like that. You're acting ridiculous. I think it'd be better for you if you went back for help instead. I wouldn't have made you come along if I'd known you'd get so upset—"

"I don't want to disappoint you, Heero. Honestly, I don't," the American murmured darkly. From his vantage point, standing directly behind the American pilot, he could see the distinct lines tensing through the entire line of Duo's body, and his braid lay neatly between his gaunt shoulder blades and twitching as loathing laughter rolled smoothly out of his chest and sent ominous shivers down his spine.

"But I don't think I'll be able to control myself right now. I'm going to beat this bastard to a bloody, unrecoverable pulp if he so much as gives one of those kids a fucking shady look, and I apologize in advance for it. But I'm going to make that bastard wish he'd never fucked around with Shinigami's kind." The announcement was dark and almost prophetic, but his eyes didn't lie, and Duo certainly prided himself on never lying.

"Duo," Heero chided sharply, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. An instant later all he felt were the snowflakes falling off of the dark, beat-up jacket that the American wore along with the palm of his hand and the sharp, immediate feeling of offense as his gesture of comfort was rebuked in favor of dashing towards one of the classroom doors.

"Hey!" the Japanese pilot hissed, doubly frustrated by his comrade's stubbornness and his foolishness. "Damn it, Duo, stop this and listen to me!"

But it was useless. Whatever he would have said would have fallen on deaf ears each time—whatever he would have done, short of punching him squarely on the jaw, would have gone unnoticed, he was that far gone into anger. Shrugging off Heero's hand—forcing himself to ignore the guilt he felt in the act of being so callous to the man he'd always hoped to be able put his hands on his face and not risk being socked, to touch for no reason, to try and romance with his horrible cooking—he bolted toward the first classroom insight, at the opposite end of the dim hallway. The pasty gray light that had ventured in through the glass door was growing fainter and the walls darker and the fingerprinted images on the wall more and more indistinct.

The overwhelming thunder of fury coursed through his brain like unheard music, influencing him to do things that he'd only dreamt of doing on a primal level. He wanted to bash the brains out of whoever was threatening those kids, and he'd wanted an opportunity to ventilate that desire for years and years. There were a few things war was good for, a very slim few, mind you, and for Duo Maxwell it had been exercising a particular demon named Shinigami.

Cursing what God would have the sick sense of humor to ignite such wrath from his comrade, Heero ran after the blurring shadow as best as he could while still glancing around the darkened hallways for signs of danger. God, it frustrated him so much how Duo was allowed to blindly jump into something without risk, only because he was there to watch his back. He tried calling out to his friend, but he knew it was useless. Duo was intent on protecting those kids, even though he'd never seen them before.

The yellow-tan wooden door ahead of them was securely shut, a glimpse of an equally dark classroom peeking through the small, square glass window. Through the intercrossing black lines in the glass, there were hints of colorful posters of friends walking together to school, multi-toned maps of the United States, piles of books, and not a hint of a living soul. The erratic tattoo of furious feet on the wooden floors echoed eerily up into the top levels, which were equally devoid of laughter and light.

It drove Duo even faster, even deeper into a realm of no return, as he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open with his shoulder and losing not a bit of his momentum. He even went as far as to fling it shut behind him. Heero was naturally quicker on his feet, and had Duo not pushed the door behind him, the Japanese man would have been seconds from grabbing a hold of the long plait of hair that trailed behind him and reining him in. The fraction of a second that it took to push the door out of his way was just enough to allow Duo to escape.

"Just calm down!" Heero barked sharply. By now he was having trouble keeping it beneath his breath.

They sprinted past tiny tables scattered with markers and crayons, past the alphabetical, square cubbyholes stuffed with papers and creations, past sleeping mats with ragged teddy bears tucked beneath their airy blankets. Heero was too wrapped up in frustration, trying to rein in his emotional comrade before he would cause more trouble for himself, and trying to regain the momentum he'd lost. He was too preoccupied at the moment to see the obvious signs of struggles—a jar of paint had shattered on the carpet, orange acrylics spilled in the shape of a blood spatter. Some of the miniature chairs had been tossed backwards and a bullet hole had taken a chunk out of Kentucky on the American map. He went by, still gritting his teeth and snapping after Duo.

Although it would seem that they were running a rat race, being inside a seemingly enclosed room, Lady Luck was siding with the frothing American that day, the first she had for a long time, and across the distance of the cramped kindergarten room there was gray, snowy light soaking in through a glass door that led out onto a small backyard. A backyard filled with a few metal structures for the orphanage inhabitants to spend their recesses on.

There just happened to be a classroom's worth of those orphans, of various ages and ethnicity, were huddling anxiously together in a cattle-like heard, bowing on their knees and ducking frightfully beneath the silenced gun brandished at them. The ragged circle of sobbing, shaking children and their pale-faced teacher clutching as many of the youngest to her sides as she could, formed around the instigator of all this unnecessary suffering. A twentysomething addict lifted the silenced pistol without discretion at whatever moved, his eyes as frantic and emotional and desperate as Duo's were furious.

A plainclothes police officer lay face down in the dirt, a boot on his back securing his degrading position. His gun had apparently been knocked from his hand, as it was still lying on the ground, palm open, and it seemed to rest in the addict's pocket.

It was almost horrific to behold, something so close to a specific wound in Duo's chest, and whatever tact had survived in him had now found itself buying the farm and the new found furor was already reaching for the door knob. He could hear his own young voice echoing in his head, or more precisely, echoing in the rafters of the Maxwell Church, while it had still stood in its humble glory.

_"If it's a mobile suit you guys wan', then I'll go get one! Then you can leave us alone!"_

_"Duo!"_

Sister Helen's hand had never been enough to stop him when he was hell bent on —not even Heero would be able to stop him, reason with him in the state he was in. The warmth and strength of his Japanese comrade's hand sat vainly again on his shoulder; this time he'd caught him by both of his shoulders with intent to spin him around and bash some rationale into his brain with that cutting monotone of his, but to no avail. He shrugged it off again, the anger in him reaching a dangerous swell.

It was the way of Duo Maxwell to act on his pride, and there was no way in the fires of Hell that he would be stopped from protecting those poor kids.

"They'd never asked for any of that shit, none of it!" Duo hissed venomously, throwing his fist sloppily around the doorknob and lunging into the door as it swung open.

"Duo!"

As the light adjusted in their eyes, Duo stepping righteously out onto the first step and Heero cursing all the way as he lunged after, hoping to draw him back inside in time to avoid being seen. Even as the winter breeze rushing inside was still breaking on them, there was a strangled exclamation from the center of the simmering chaos. The addict instantly found them, and with a jagged and fretting voice, snapped at them not to move. The barrel was leveled at them from the distance of seventy-five meters, but both Gundam Pilots could see it trembling in his grip.

"_Baka_," came the incriminating hiss at Duo's back.

The American paid no heed to Heero's frustrated whisper and, plastering a stony Shinigami grin onto his face once again, he lifted his palms in surrender and began walking towards the trembling man posing the threat of a bomb, the evidence bulging ever so slightly beneath his ratty mohair sweater in the shape of a crude but effective homemade fertilizer bomb.

"Hey! Hey, don't you move!"

"I was only coming to see some of the kids," the longhaired brunette man offered peaceably, even offering a humble little shrug to top off his dead-accurate acting.

The blond-haired, pale-skinned addict gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and waved his gun threateningly at the uninvited pair, directly them sharply to sit down with the rest and, "don't cause no trouble, else you'll be in the market for a casket.'"

It'd better be dead accurate, Heero though, as he was forced at gun point to follow his comrade into a situation he'd had no time to map out a mission plan. A situation in which either of them could be shot, fail miserably, or have the deaths of tens of more innocents on their conscience. He hoped that Duo knew exactly what the he was doing, dragging him into something like this.


	10. The Guns of Brixton

Chapter 10

"The Guns of Brixton"

He could not remember if he'd ever taken the time to pass on the words of advice from his childhood, the ones that he had ridden in cramped cockpits and walked killing grounds and defended pacifists with, to Duo, but even if he had, he probably wouldn't have needed them. He was already acting on his emotions; hell, it was nothing but the wrath and rage that drove him out here, now, where they were forced at gunpoint to settle in with the rest of the captive audience. Heero hoped that his comrade wouldn't do something foolish to endanger himself in the midst of such strong emotions, but as a gun barrel bossed him down to his knees and he glanced over to the American, that hope diminished a little in probability. Duo's face may have appeared to be the picture of confused, mild fear and timid demeanor, able to take on whatever shape his mind willed, but beneath it there was a horrible expression of fury that could only wait to get its hands around the addict's neck. Aforementioned twenty-something quickly whipped the weapon towards Duo again, demanding he get all the way down when he failed to.

Failed, as in with intentions of ripping the gun from his hands and ending this unnecessary and tormenting event. Heero watched out of the corner of his eye as a tiny hint of that anger inevitably slipped through his innocent bystander mask and burned in his violet-colored gaze. He held back a hiss of frustration when the addict picked up on that slip of composure and kept the weapon on Duo, the safety off with a harsh click as it pointed at him. "You, what's your name?" the young man asked, staring down at Duo while he stared back, on his knees, his hands behind his head just as he'd been ordered.

"Duo Maxwell," he answered plainly, innocently, trying to recover what parts of his façade he'd lost with that single, fiery look.

But as well as he could act that he was simply mixed up and frightened, the underlying expression was one of furious frustration—the gun safety had been on; he'd missed his first chance and the odds of another were slimming by the moment and doubling in difficulty. And Heero could feel that frustration radiating off him. They'd been separated from one another by the addict, and whether he'd done it on instinct or just dumb luck, it was what had saved him. Had he forced the two at gunpoint close enough, they would have already gotten him. Heero kept replaying the scenario in his head that might have ended there and then: Duo would have lunged off suddenly to the side, drawing the attention and the gun after him, and Heero would have been on the addict in a second, putting his fist into his stomach and putting him out like a pinched candle wick. It was something he vaguely remembered they had executed from their war days; it would come back to them like riding a bike. But the distance between them ruined that particular prospect and Heero kept his scowl while his tactical mind was racing behind a backdrop of concern directed to his left, settling on the other pilot.

The punk readjusted his grip on his gun and was cautious enough, and perhaps rattled enough by the look that had slipped through onto the American's face, to keep it locked on him. Obviously, he didn't recognize the name he'd been given, otherwise he might have had the insight to turn tail and run. "What were you doing? Don't give me any bullshit, either," he demanded impatiently.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Duo drawled, rolling his eyes.

"Well, answer up!"

His face soured and wrinkled unappreciatively, giving the young man a sideways look. "You're being rather rude, you know? Didn't your mother ever teach you to respect your elders? You'd go a long ways if you just remembered that. Might even get out of the second grade!"

"Huh," the punk sneered mockingly, jabbing the gun in the direction of his knees nastily. "You're some asshole, I tell you. How old are you, then, geezer? Like I have to take any of this shit from you! You look like you could be my kid brother! Please," he scoffed. His defenses had lessened considerably, now indulging in a jeering laugh at Duo's expense, feeling an awfully false sense of security behind the grip of his gun.

"I could be," Duo purred darkly, "but, luckily, I'm not, am I?"

Any relatively perceptive soldier might have read that low remark as a subtle death sentence, declaring that he would have no problem trashing him past any point of recognition. But he was not, and he didn't, so Duo's veiled threat was wasted on the twentysomething. Heero's eyes did not move from the side of the Deathscythe pilot's face, his mind churning and watching each expression with guarded analysis. He was looking for a signal, even the most minute of innuendoes or calculated moves that could hint him in the direction Duo intended, and follow. The only problem was he wasn't sure if it was towards a furious, fighting death, and he would not glance back at Heero for the life of him, too busy staring down the punk.

"That's enough out of you," the young man said, his uncertainty with the strange captive coated by his false confidence with the firearm and therefore a little easier to conquer. Duo's sublimely defiant look didn't buy it, though the punk couldn't see past the actor's worried façade. "Either tell me what I asked, or shut up."

"Under penalty of death?" he asked sarcastically, letting enough to the surface to rattle the kid sufficiently. "Would that be yours, or mine?"

For a moment, his voice stripped down to its true sentiment, and was stonily dark. Even for Shinigami, it was a menacing threat, without hint of his usual devilish laugh and its matching smirk. He'd dropped all the courtesy of his grinning façade, knowing it was wasted on this foolish child and he should have a chance to know what he'd gotten himself into. "You should make sure, because I highly doubt the latter, kid."

Heero shivered. He suddenly feared more for the civilian's life more than he worried about Duo's safety.

It seemed that it was inevitable that this frightening message ushered by a man who called himself the incarnation of Death was to be lost on this kid, for even as the flicker of a fear appeared in his eyes, bloodshot from the first tinges of withdrawal, he remedied it by simply readjusting the grip of his gun in his palm. Rather than listen to his justified anxiety, some stubborn part of him pushed on past it, unwilling to give up the whole endeavor because of some stranger's voice. He told himself he did not fear it, and it worked. He simply scoffed again, and waited for the grave stare on Duo's face to dishearten and fade. And when it didn't, he scoffed again, this time angrily, and snapped back.

"You got a fucking problem? Then speak up!" he announced, jabbing the barrel forcefully toward the American, until the cold rim of metal rested against the skin between his eyes.

To see the gun nestle itself up to the face of his best friend, threatening to steal away the man he'd been unable to find for a decade after their time spent together fighting a bloody, long war, struck at Heero with an obscenity he hadn't felt since that war. Needless to say, he had already begun to envision the myriad ways he'd make the punk regret ever touching his partner, regret ever underestimating any of the Gundam pilots and failing to give them the respect they deserved. And most of all, he'd make him regret ever endangering an innocent in front of him. And he meant _really_ regret it.

Duo's stare didn't move from the twentysomething's face, considering his haggard features, his bloodshot-eyes and the stubbornly foolish gleam in them. His face contorted a little, adding a hint of regretful smirk to it. "Too many to tell in a lifetime, brother," he remarked cryptically. "And none you'll ever get to hear. Not sticking your neck into places it doesn't belong like you are, anyway. You put that gun away and I might just grace you with a few grains of wisdom. Otherwise there'll only be more pain to suffer."

"Bullshit. I don't want any lofty talk from you. I'm not the one about to earn one between the eyes," the kid snarled back, provoked by Duo's dark, resigned, and almost apocalyptic warning.

The American was stony and still. "Do it, then," he dared flatly. "Prove it to me. Send me to Hell if you can. Do it for all the men I've condemned to death—they'll _love_ you for it." He hissed the last line with a listlessness that was more frightening than malice.

"If you want it, I'd be happy to." His sincerity was a little faded and he was not so readily reckless with his words as he had been before the Gundam pilots had arrived. But he would do it if this guy pushed him to, with looming withdrawal symptoms and the weight of his friends' imprisonment weighing on him, pressuring his good sense until it had been crushed to nothing. So, with little ado, the punk jabbed the barrel of the gun tight into the skin between his eyes in preparation. The grip suddenly seemed awfully sweaty and he had to readjust his grip.

Duo sighed, eyes closed and the angry furrow of his brow fading slightly. "Before you do that, bud, give this old geezer an answer to why you're doing this. For god's sake, why all these children? They've seen enough in their life it could make your head spin to think about it. They're going to have hard lives as it is without having to play part to your sick little production. Why these kids?"

"It's not their fault," he answered, gritting his teeth. "They just got in the way. I didn't mean it to happen. I thought they had vacation today—I only wanted the teachers."

It didn't soothe Duo's expression. "Why them? Their lives are just as precious as a child's."

"They're the ones who turned my friends in, and almost got me arrested with them. I live with them for thirteen years and that's what I'm repaid with? That's bullshit! All of a sudden, I'm worthless to them? If they wanna ruin me, then I'll take them with me!"

For a moment, he felt his voice filling with an unnatural warble of weakness, instilled by the disturbingly peaceful expression the man beneath his gun suddenly wore. Only seconds before it had been hateful and righteous, filled with threat and protectiveness. Now, he kneeled in the damp Seattle dirt with a revolver to his head, appearing almost to doze while the barrel dug between his eyes. And his voice coaxed him into truth without recognition. For a second, the punk wondered if this guy would be truly happy to be proven wrong, if it was what he secretly wanted. His finger gently twitched around the trigger, unable to clear his head or suddenly even swallow.

He may have well gotten his chance to slay the infamous war veteran, inadvertently taking the life of a hated and hailed Gundam pilot, but it was interrupted by something. Whether it was fate or chance did not matter. Someone in the crowd of huddling, thoroughly shocked children and the single, frightened adult trying to herd them and curb their fearful emotions among them made a noise, which caught the attention of the addict long enough to cause his eyes to move from Duo's face. It was enough for his peripheral vision to register nothing where there definitely should have been Heero Yuy.

Duo's eyes flew open, staring up the cold barrel of the gun, watching his comrade come suddenly out of nowhere after slinking off during their involved conversation of death. He moved just as lethally fast as he'd always done before, eluding death and soldiers in the shadow with him, but it wasn't enough. The addict was quick, also, though no where near that of a seasoned fighter. But if it was enough to bring the gun around, it could be enough to put a bullet through his comrade. In a sloppy, quick arc he whipped his arm around, trying to level the barrel in blind panic. Just before the violent blur that was Heero reached the twentysomething, Duo felt the butt of the gun buck suddenly into his face just below the eye and all the air in his lungs left him in one pained breath. The blurs of movement that was the Japanese pilot and the addict grappling all whirled away as he was thrown into the ground the by the force of the accidental pistol-whipping. His skin stung sharply and his jaw made an unpleasant noise, but Duo had felt much worse in his warring days.

_But that doesn't make it hurt any less right now, goddamn it_, his thought to himself.

He lifted his head again, to see the weight of the young gunman, troubled by drugs and now troubled even more by the terrible power Heero was exercising on subduing him, fall flat to the ground. Pounced on and forceably thrown onto his stomach and having his face dug into the ground as Heero wrangled his gun out of his possession and his hands out of his control, the punk was spared the fiery expression Heero wore as he kept him pinned. Had he seen it face to face, he might have lost all conviction then and there and been spared this commotion. God knows it would have struck some sanity into him, to face the wrathful cold blue of the Wing pilot's glare.

But, Duo mused darkly, it hadn't. So it only remained a fantasized could-have-been in his head, and he raised himself onto his arms and rubbed at the stinging on his face absently. He watched the blur of movement and brutal muscle that was his comrade grappling against the young man.

"Fuck you, man! What _is_ this—!" The twentysomething barked out at him as soon as there was the slightest opportunity for him to wrench his face from the moist Seattle grass and exercise his reckless mouth. Considering how loathsome his cowardice was to the pilots, stooping to involving children in his own violent and selfish affairs, Heero was acting very agreeably with him when he stuffed his mouth full of dirt again and made him quiet. This time, when he bobbed his head back up, he kept begrudgingly quiet.

Duo wasted no time in getting up on his feet and going to the paled woman standing, shaking among the children and told her in his best compassionate tone to calm down and just get the children out front. The orphans, led by a few of the older ones nudging them along, were quick to comply and quickly left the scene.

"It's alright, miss," he reassured her honestly. Though she was taller than him by a few lofty inches, making her gape down at him with her frightened eyes, he still felt like a comforting older brother as he put a hand on her shaking shoulder. "Please, just go with the kids. The cops should be here soon and they'll help sort everything out."

Of course, his hand was still a little unsteady, while the adrenaline coursed his body with no outlet and threatened to make him tired to the bone. She hesitated before nodding and following the children. Duo had the distinct feeling that she'd been staring at the wound on his face from the butt of the gun, and with a little gritty smirk he reached up to touch it, watching her protectively as she reunited with her shaken class. Just as he mused how they would take this incident, probably just one of horrible things they should have never had to see, he felt the cold, sticky texture of blood on his skin.

_Great_, he thought with a grimace, _I must be really losing my touch. Can't wait till Quatre gets sight of this. He'll probably trip over himself going for the medicine cabinet. _

Duo quickly turned back around, taking his nursing hand from the stinging side of his face. His eyes landed on his partner, still asserting himself in a very pissed manner over the twentysomething addict who had disrupted the day in such a dramatic way. And after a few moments of panic and violence, he had been subdued. Duo was a little disappointed. It was kind of anti-climatic; but then again, it may have just been him. War could desensitize you in the most unusual ways, he reminded himself, remembering how he had never been really able to watch another horror or action movie without finding himself incredibly bored with it. The real thing could not be topped, and the parts of him that had been killed by violence would be numb and simultaneously oversensitive forever.

Heero was holding both of the kid's wrists tight with just his own left hand. They were nearly twice the size of his, but they were much more experienced, and the Japanese pilot was just much more angered with the addict than the addict was with him. With a severe expression, he carefully took his right hand away and began reciting the Miranda Warning with a growling enthusiasm. Meanwhile, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it from his waist in one flawless motion.

Still standing there, waiting for his partner, the American forced down a flush. _Well_, Duo thought, _Relena must love _that_ little move._

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—" Heero continued. He used his leather belt to wrap around the addict's hand as a makeshift set of handcuffs. Looping it once around each wrist, he then proceeded to make the tightest square knot Duo had seen, until the kid's hands were practically burning red.

He lifted his head from the dirt to let out a fierce noise of pain and snap out, "Hey, watch what the fuck you're doin', man—That hurt!"

A hand then buried itself unapologetically into the young man's hair and pulled it from the ground, yanking it back so that Heero had his undivided attention. The soft puffs of air rolling over his ear when the pilot spoke there were not what made him shiver a second later. It was what he growled at him in a perfect impassive monotone that was the most disconcerting.

"You're a very lucky boy. I'm normally a very peaceful guy, but if you had done more than so much as move a hair on my partner's head out of place, there wouldn't have been enough of you left for even the Preventers to find." As he remained there, pinning the twentysomething to the ground and leaning forward to growl something off the record in his ear, he reached down with one hand and tightened the makeshift handcuff with a jerk.

"Now, I recommend you apologize whole-heartedly to Duo," he growled in a low voice. "I've still got three more levels of force I'm authorized to exercise, and I haven't been in the best mood since you interrupted my day and my retirement. Threatening innocents doesn't make me any happier, either."

When the fact that Heero Yuy meant each one of his words fully and passionately struck home, and struck home with a kick. The kid dryly swallowed and nodded. His whole body was now tense as a pinned hare, and not from the awkward position. His hair was released and he let his head slump back in the ground and there he remained for a few moments, simply catching his breath and staring at the grass, the white of his startled eyes visible from where Duo was standing. After that, the Japanese pilot continued on with Miranda-rizing the arrested punk.

Duo listened to Heero's detached and cold voice with a little surrealism and had to fight off the somewhat erotic image of his best friend sitting on the back of another man and leaning down to hiss in his ear, back muscles tensing and accentuating the fine arch his body made as he did so.

Luckily, his mind was not left to linger on the thought, and he had not even begun to think about his actual words when sirens whooped once, then twice from out in the street. It was enough to draw Duo's attention away and see the flickering red and blue light painting the nearest surface of the orphanage building an odd moving collage. Backup had arrived just in time to be a pain in the ass, but a great help simultaneously. Immediately, Duo was compelled to follow them out into the street and make sure that none of the children had been harmed and tend whoever might be, but his feet wouldn't move until their work was finished.

With the erotic image of his partner safely placed in the side of his mind for the moment, the American turned his head back around to see that Heero had already managed to stand the larger twentysomething on his feet, though they were unsteady beneath him. And he saw that he was pretty much still functioning on a hair-trigger, with a sever expression warning the young man from out of his sight to behave himself. It was a condition triggered in turn by the placement of the gun to his head and aggravated only further with the endangerment of innocents. By now means was Heero a truly violent man, but that didn't mean there wasn't a certain button that couldn't be pushed, a certain line that could be crossed that would cause him to revoke his gentle nature for a few moments.

The twentysomething addict's legs had taken to shaking, still terrorized by a flying heartbeat and adrenaline. His face, now drained pale from Heero's onslaught, was turning pasty and round and submissive. It was this that made Duo walk tiredly over to the arrested young man and look upon him with a momentary pang of pity. He could only imagine what _his _face had looked like at times, judging from the sad and bloodied faces he'd seen during the war and even further before.

The pale face almost reminded him of the white of Sister Helen's habit. And inevitably, her rosy, warm, thoughtful face came to mind as stood before the kid. Luckily, her memory also invoked a peaceable, wise mood and he looked over the young man's face once, as if trying to physically look into his troubled life. He stood stock still beneath the pilot's stare, though his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He was inching toward a very unpleasant withdrawal, Duo could see and that scared him just as much as Heero Yuy was tensed behind him, ready to protect his partner should the addict behave irrationally toward him.

Instead of lecturing or reprimanding him, Duo simply looked him in the bloodshot, nervous eye and asked, "What's your name?"

"Keller," he managed out in an unsteadied voice.

Duo smiled tiredly for the kid's sake, though it barely reached his eyes. "Alright, listen up, Keller. I'm gonna tell you something, and if you really want to come away from this thing with any good advice, you'll listen carefully. I'm still not a bit happy with the shit you tried to pull, and honestly, there's a part of me that would love nothing more than setting you straight. But I've been through too much and I'm getting far too old to get angry all the time, and so has Heero. I'll tell you this once, so pay attention."

With that, he clapped one hand onto his shoulder and took a deep sigh before continuing. "I never knew my parents, and I ended up stealing on the streets, getting shot at every day and watching plague victims drop right and left. I would have gotten into much worse shit if I hadn't been taken in by people who were probably just as good-hearted as those teachers in there, whom you just tried to shoot. You understand?"

Keller nodded mutely, looking not so pale but now more emotionally nauseated.

"Anyway, I didn't get along with them perfectly. Hell, the first week there all I did was argue, swear, spit and fight," Duo informed him, cracking a nostalgic grin. He remembered his stubborn antics during his first days at the Maxwell Church, and how flushed Sister Helen would become when she caught Duo trying to swindle the older orphans or use his extensive colorful language around the younger ears. "They put me in stuffy wool clothes, tried to cut my hair, and made me wash my face five times a day. I really thought I hated them for a while. But eventually, I grew out of my foolishness and realized they really meant the best for me, no matter what. And as soon as I had, I lost them."

The twentysomething's face filled with something like shame and a growing respect when he watched Duo's face lose its nostalgic soft edges and harden as he tried to drive his point across. "It doesn't matter how much you disagreed or how badly you got along, as soon as there's a death on your conscious, you'll never live long enough to forget it or get rid of your guilt. So, as lame as this sounds, just heed my advice and think about what you're doing before you go out and buy a Browning, alright?"

For a second, Duo swore the kid was trying to chuckle at that last statement, but either it wasn't as funny as he hoped it would be, or the reality of the situation had finally come a-knocking and taken his voice away. He hoped it was the latter of the two.

"Oh, and Keller? I'd read over my history book again and make sure I wasn't going to be fighting against the two of us, if I were you," he added lastly with a grin, just as another officer of the Seattle police department arrived at the back door, slid it open, and called out to the two and the handcuffed addict between them.

* * *

**AN**: _Surprise_! Hi, hello, and yes, I finally kicked myself in the ass to get to work and get out the next chapter of Twelve. Yes, I'm as lazy as I am, and I'm surprised this story didn't divorce me and demand child support or something. I've got this bucket here to catch anybody's complaint on the time between updates (more like _eons_, Kait!) so fire away, if you feel you have to. I'm still not at peace with my muses, which take more frequent and deeper naps than my aging dog, so I can't promise I won't lag behind on future updates, but I'll sure as hell try to keep my lazy ass in check. Also, I've got my little good luck Buddha statue (which I also dropped on the floor twice, breaking off his foot and part of his robe and hand) sitting in my pocket, and I really hope I can juggle all these works in progress at once. (Yes, I am working on Shini, Barbarians, and Pedigree, as well!) So god willing, I'll conquer my writer's blocks, get a job, and find tickets for the Green Day concert in November. ..; Yeah, dreaming big. Anyway, I'm missing _North By Northwest_. Ciao. 


	11. Heard It Through the Grapevine

Chapter 11

"Heard It Through the Grapevine"

When the flight attendant passed again, she politely stopped to give the newest edition of the New York Times to the young blonde woman who'd requested it. Beneath a pair of glossy and distant sunglasses, she smiled in return with a polite thanking as she put her ice water into the cup holder with one hand. Beside her, an older woman was talking casually to the politician about something that sounded vaguely like tentative, distant plans to visit some foreign land embroiled in dispute. The attendant noticed she was hardly paying the topic a bit of attention and left first class with a faintly amused smile on her face. There were other passengers to attend to, more eavesdropping to be had.

Beneath those concealing dark shades, Relena Peacecraft was hardly concerned with the issues her advisor was spouting at her now that she had obtained that morning's printing of the New York Times. She was not just scanning for the crossword puzzle. While her trusted political guide continued on with her verbal agenda, so absorbed in the prospects of spreading good PR that she hardly noticed Relena unfolding the newspaper and smoothing out the front page so she could lay her eyes on the bold, black-print headline. The paper crinkled stiffly, the sound drowned out by the advisor's continuing voice, and Relena quickly removed her sunglasses. Her expression was nearly scandalous by her standards. She gaped quietly, staring down.

"I don't believe this," she said, shaking her head. "They've already printed the _pictures_, for heaven's sake."

That managed to sufficiently quiet her older advisor, who quickly looked over to see the unflinching headline crawling over the top of a rather well-taken photograph of the Vice Foreign Minister receiving a bold and calmly premeditated slap to the face from an eminent female Pakistani politician after listening to one of her speeches emphasizing the necessity of complete peace in the post-war world of the Earth Sphere. Printed above it, enough to nearly infuriate Relena's even composure, were the words, "Vice Foreign Minister Needs Schooling in Reality? Pakistani says, About Time'!"

Relena folded the paper again, her face crinkled with distaste. "It's useless, then, to leave Sam back there to manage the situation. Someone had probably sold the story to New York before we even set our alarm clocks." Her unpleasant expression turned on the glass of ice water sitting neglected at her arm, thoughts beginning to turn in her head of just what the political atmosphere would be like when she stepped off the plane on American soil. Nothing seemed rather promising, and the half-emptied glass offered no response.

"Would you like me to relay the message to your publicist?"

"No, I think he's already aware of it. He'll return on his own, when he realizes that all his work will be at _home_, rather than where it should have stayed," Relena answered with a sigh, still holding the folded up newspaper in her hand. When she realized she could still glimpse the ink image of her own face, contorted by the sudden physical statement, she quickly handed the thing to the woman sitting beside her and asked her politely to read it for her while she stood and, in irritation, made her way to the bathroom without another word.

* * *

Duo walked ahead of the apprehended to the black-and-white sitting crookedly at the sidewalk and opened the door to the backseat without a word. Past Officer Lewis, nursing a gash on his forehead with an ice pack, sitting on the hood of another car. Past the clumps of orphan children and the newly gathered on-lookers that'd come to catch a glimpse of the new disturbance, to catch a sight of a little adventure they couldn't find in their daily lives. There were three cars altogether, one officer to take the prisoner, and two that were presumably to help settle the traumatized crowd of kids ranging from kindergarten to middle school. The latter two were already out of their vehicles, and walking about the milling group, who hung instinctively near their home while the two men tried to organize them, keep them from wandering off.

The arrested party kept dutifully silent as he was escorted into the backseat and stared dully forward, at the metal grate separating the front and back seat that possibly modeled the course of the next few months or even years of his life. Even then, Duo thought to himself as he slammed the door securely close, knowing what direction your life was headed, even if it was an unpleasant direction, was something he wouldn't have minded having during his teenage years. It would have saved him unnecessary pains. His eyes remained locked on the addict's face while he stared in from the outside, feeling miles away emotionally from the irrational fool of a young man and knowing that they didn't have so much difference from each other.

Heero locked the door and Keller shifted his head to stare out the other window.

"He's not going to be any happy when they take him into custody," the Japanese pilot muttered quietly, almost pitying him. "But he's been a fool. He's the only one to blame for what he did."

The sun had long risen up out of the clutches of the city skyline and it gleamed on the police car's back window after it had been shut and Duo leaned against the car with a sigh emptying his lungs. He glanced up at the sky and the lethargic clouds hovering there for a second, at the heavens watching the ridiculous carousal of mankind, shaking his head in mild amusement. "Well, ain't it the truth. Hell, I never thought I'd be on this side of an arrest," he said with a chuckle, his chilly hands shoved in his jacket pockets. "Never thought I'd grow to be this old, either."

Heero had removed the makeshift handcuff and now stood by the car, looping it around his waist again, nodding his head in agreement. "Aa. I still feel as if we're all just here on borrowed time," he added when his fingers nudged the buckle into place and he looked up to his American comrade. A tired smile peered out from underneath his disheveled dark hair. "And I'd rather not spend that borrowed time seeing any more violence than I have to."

"I didn't think you'd ever find violence justified. Not after what we saw," Duo snorted in return, tilting his head toward Heero.

The tired smile stretched a bit further and through it he could sense the distinct taste of war experience flavoring his answer. "You're right; I don't. So I have a lot of wasted time. But to spare even one life from that violence is never a waste."

"It's that Peacecraft influence, I'll bet," Duo teased with a sly, toothy grin a mile wide that was doubly forced. He decided, though, that he would indulge his own pitiful joke and folded his arms snugly as he lifted an eyebrow at the other pilot, his back still against the cold metal of the police car. "It sounds awfully surreal to hear you talk of pacifism, you know. I'm not sure I'm ready for it. Relena's forced the soldier to soften up, has she?"

Heero raised his own in response, smug but a little surprised. "Soft?" he asked amusedly. "Is that what you call what I did to save you back there?"

He grinned ruthlessly in return. "You call that _saving_?"

"I had some idea of what I was doing, though," Heero reminded him smoothly.

"Oh ho!" Duo replied, straightening up, violet eyes bright. He fearlessly stuck his face into his comrade's, twitching his nose at him and his simmering little smirk smartly. "Hey, if I had known you had such witty banter in you, Officer Yuy, I would have rattled your cage far more than I did. I was starved for some good conversation in those god-awful schools, and you sat there that whole time, tighter-lipped than as if someone had sewn your mouth shut. You knew it was driving me crazy, didn't you?"

Heero answered the intimidating motion with his own intermission, staring back into those defiant eyes. He drawled in return, "I might have spoken up, but I doubt there was time to talk with your mouth running at fifteen clicks an hour."

The sly reply pleasantly surprised him. "My, you're just spot on today, aren't you?" Duo inquired with a quirky grin, maintaining that stance with equal fearlessness.

"Or you may be off, Shinigami," was the response, with only an arched eyebrow and unwavering smug smile.

The American laughed heartily, feeling the emotional scars recently inflamed start to fade into a comfortable state, far too charmed by the blue-eyed pilot to dwell on the painful memories of his own days as a young orphan for long in his presence. He lifted an eyebrow and blew a little incredulous puff of air between his grinning lips. "You know just what to use for you cute comeback every time, don't you, Yuy? Aw, whassamatter? Now all of a sudden you're tongue-tied?"

His following laughter went unwelcome by the reassuring, simmering smile on the Japanese pilot's face and it faded off almost abruptly when Duo realized the expression on his best friend's face had changed so drastically. The chuckle died in his throat awkwardly to see that the attractive tilt of Heero's lips was now the pursed, almost scowling picture of concentration and those pretty blue eyes had a tinge of anxiety dying them darker to match. He tried to force another laugh, however sheepish it may have come out, to lighten the sudden heaviness he did not understand nor expect, but nothing but a weak rasp would escape him and he was left grinning dumbly. He felt inanely vulnerable and even with the sounds of the city and people talking and the engines rumbling in the background, it made it seem like they were the only souls left on the earth.

So when Heero made a brief grimace and lifted up a hand to his hand, it was as good as shooting Duo through the heart with an arrow, for he felt stupefied and paralyzed to the spot. The chilled metal pressed flat against his back from the small up to his shoulder blades launched a bout of shivers to travel up and down his spine. His nervous smile melted away when Heero's thumb came to rest gingerly just below Duo's eye, and the American finally realized what had caused the uneasy concern in his comrade. He flinched slightly, staring back silently, as Heero brushed the wound from the butt of the pistol and he withdrew his hand immediately.

"Sorry," he mumbled out from behind a clumsy tongue, shying his eyes away.

He did not have a clever bantering response for that action and even Duo Maxwell found himself at a momentary loss for words, his jaw gaping slightly and quietly. For him and his drumming heart, it came as a little relief when he heard a voice of a coworker call out for the Japanese pilot and draw his attention and those bottomless blue eyes off his face. It also spared him the trouble of wrangling the lump in his throat to the side in order to speak up. He breathed a sigh of relief in his mind, though he wasn't sure exactly from what fear he was escaping.

"Yuy!" came the less than amiable tone as someone barked from down the sidewalk. "Hey, Yuy!"

Heero's head turned toward his name instinctively. Duo saw the fine, defining edges of his expression sour and knew at once that it was his old co-working buddy, finally arriving on the scene and prepared to enact some more aggravation on the Gundam pilot, it seemed. "What took you, Mayfield?" he asked with a similar level of fondness. His face set up its defenses, his scowl dug its trenches; Duo had not forgotten what it was like to be on the sharp end of his glare.

Though however strange their situation, however ridiculously young they might seem, he had always believed that just the mention of a Gundam pilot should invoke some degree of high respect, whether it was reverence or antipathy was just a matter of personal opinion. And Duo could see how riled Heero was to be denied that regard every time this man approached him. And he could also see, from years of secretly interpreting his slightest moves, that wasn't going to confront him on that very issue. He could be such a kitten at times, Duo thought with a mental grin.

"I had some trouble getting here, if that's what you want to hear, Yuy," the man answered tautly as he sauntered over. There was a definite hitch to his step that could impair his mobility should he need to get physical on a dispatch, and the confidence and experience in his eyes indicated that if he had not been injured, his gait would have matched his swaggering expression. "If I had been as close as you were, I bet I would have gotten here much earlier than you. What were you doing this whole time, anyway? Smellin' the roses?"

He stopped before them, chuckling, and it gave Duo an opportunity to size up the nuisance to his best friend. As he began to see more and more into Heero's life, as it had developed in the years of their separation, that he was surprisingly sweet and composed while surrounded by people who seemed to scoff at his being a Gundam pilot. From what the American had seen so far, living through the wars and single-handedly preserving the well-being of the planet didn't amount to a sum to be respected to some people around here.

Officer Mayfield was just at that age where Duo suspected he'd been one or two years out of prime soldiering age, and he'd escaped the violent blunt of what had taken hold of the world a decade ago, what had sculpted Heero and Duo into the men they were today. Just as ironclad COs shaped untrained enlistees into a well-oiled war machine, the war and even the dire situation that led to this world conflict had been a harsh hand that hammered and hewed them into pilots, a violent teacher who'd taught them to survive. And without a similar experience, there was a definite space for eyes not to meet.

He was probably nearing his own retirement age, but it would be after long years of working, along with the lingering resentment of an injury, which had in turn led to an opening, and in turn had led to Heero's hiring and the beginning of this animosity. And then, Duo thought in amusement, Heero had outstripped him and been able to retire in only a few years. Yes, he could see how that could have the possibility of annoying people.

"It's good to see you again, too, Mayfield," Heero answered back evenly.

"Yeah, I figured as much," the other man answered, tinged with sarcasm, though it wasn't as biting as Duo would have expected.

His eyes were now shying off their original target and running over the American man standing next to the Gundam pilot he knew, trying to decide who he was. A second passed and there was no outstanding recognition. It was disheartening—oh, yeah, everybody with a television set recognized the Minister's fiancé, pilot of Wing Gundam, officer in the Seattle PD, young and handsome war hero, blah, blah, blah—but show them a picture of Duo Maxwell and ask them to identify it, and the reply was always, "Oh, I don't know. Did he kidnap or murder someone?"

Mayfield did not ask that question, but Duo knew that he was probably wondering that somewhere in a corner of his mind. "I don't think I've met this new friend of yours, Yuy," he said cautiously, hinting they should be introduced.

"He's not new. Actually—" Heero opened his mouth to begin, a little resentment simmering beneath the surface. He too, wondered why not a single sole could name the pilot of Deathscythe, though it was more from the point of view of someone who envied the anonymity a little.

"Oh, no," Duo interrupted smoothly, "that's all right. I think I'd like to introduce myself if you don't mind, _Heero_."

And as he stepped brazenly forward, extending his hand in a brotherly extension of sociability, he felt the sharp pinprick of one of Heero's knowing stares landing on the back of his head. He could see straight through to his longhaired friend's motive and knew, with a little drop in his stomach, what he planned to do, behind that mile-wide grin, that brash display of teeth. Duo was as energetic as ever, was his conclusion, and he just had forgotten just how ruthless he could be with throwing around that winsome smile.

Before another word could slip out of Heero's mouth, Duo's began working it's sly magic again before he could interrupt. When Mayfield offered out his hand in return, Duo quickly snatched it up and gave it a quick and confident shake. "Nice to meet you, Officer Mayfield. The name's Duo Maxwell. I may run and hide, but I never tell a lie—and that's me in a nutshell."

The older officer seemed genuinely amused by this and he laughed as their hands parted. "That's quite the interesting introduction there," he complimented him. "You think of that all by yourself?"

"Oh, I've had years to work on it," Duo answered, though through his grin he looked a little irritated by the question when the sly corners of his lips twitched unhappily. "And so far, I've managed to stick to my motto."

"Congrats are in order, then."

"Thanks," he grinned back.

Setting his hands on his hips, just above the standard policeman's belt ornamented with a radio and an issue sidearm, this Mayfield, who, by the way, had yet to impose any real respectability onto the American pilot, titled his head and let loose a crooked smile of his own. His intent hazel eyes went from Heero to his confident, quick-tongued friend who had asserted and introduced himself with a dazzling smile.

"I'm curious to know just how you know the department's shining officer Heero Yuy, here," he announced casually, shifting his weight onto one leg, looking like a true slothful officer. "I mean, I always thought that quiet people would attract quiet friends. You just don't seem like Yuy's type. Did you go to school together, or something?"

"In a way, you might say. We go way back—what, ten, eleven years?" Duo purred, turning his head to turn a grinning glance over to their mutual acquaintance. "And anyway, how do any of us know who's really your type, right, Heero? You _are_ getting hitched to the Vice Foreign Minister, after all."

Heero was surprised by the harshness of his forced, grinning smile, but the hidden hostility slowly easing its way to the surface, directed at his co-worker, and, most surprisingly, as Duo turned his head back around bearing that same skeleton grin, some even toward him. But, just as was his habit, the whirlwind that was Duo with something to say and the passion to outright say it had already opened his mouth again. Even though he was standing just beside the Japanese pilot, as soon as he sensed the hostility, however minute, he seemed to be separated from him by a striking brick wall and he was no doubt charging up to strike out at the unsuspecting Mayfield.

Lord, but was Duo ready and raring to pick a fight today.

"You know, I even knew him back when he was a Gundam pilot during the war," Duo added smoothly, as if it were an offhand comment.

"Well, you two do go a ways back, then," he said with a tinge of admiration. "From what I heard, Yuy was a real hellion back then. I even saw of his destruction first hand, you know, though I never thought that the pilot of such a magnificent machine would be someone like a scrawny little teenager."

The American's eyebrows raised and between his curiously pursed lips he hummed loudly. His interest was secretively wicked, though. This man was just setting himself up all too sweetly to be knocked down again, and he was relishing it. Relishing it like a gourmet chocolate on his tongue. "Oh, you _did_?"

"I spent some time in the military as a medic—I was called to the scene after he thrashed Luxembourg," Mayfield announced with a certain amount of pride. He then glanced over to Heero with an arrogantly glowing smirk. "If widespread destruction and death were anything to be proud of, you would have been dubbed a real war hero, you know, Yuy."

While he was glancing past the American for a moment, making that well-intentioned comment, it instantly struck up another fire in Duo Maxwell, who was gritting his teeth violently in the back of his mouth to prevent himself from immediately snapping out at this man. Heero _was _a war hero, and he'd been a selfless, self-sacrificing and courageous soldier to earn that title—he was the only human being to single-handedly save the Earth, and he _might _have been a hero? Oh, no, now he was crossing a very dangerous line. But in spite of this, his outward show was smooth, genial, interested.

"Well, no need to tell me!" Duo laughed cheerily. "I've seen the kind of destruction you're talking about firsthand, as well, and I'd like to think I raised some real hell myself."

"You were in the military, as well? But you would have been so young, weren't you?"

Venom blossomed on Duo's falsely friendly smile as the prey had finally fallen into his trap, and he was eager to dig his fangs into this disrespectful man. "Oh, don't you know? I wasn't in the Alliance military, _persay_, because you see, I was—Ow! _Christ_!"

A fierce tug on the long braided tail of hair that trailed down to the back of his knees sent a distinct and profound pain directly into his scalp and an automatic cuss leapt out of his mouth. By no means was it modestly restrained and unsuspecting Mayfield was taken a little aback by the sudden curse to come off that smooth-talking tongue and he warily eyed his new acquaintance, seeing no outright cause for it. Of course, what he couldn't see was Heero's hand wrapped securely around the plait of hair. Duo felt, it, and he craned his head around to give his best friend a thickly malicious look, as if to say, "How dare you! I almost had that conceited sonofva—", but his lips only had the chance to form into a knurly little scowl before Heero had calmly cut him off.

"You know, Mayfield, I have something very important to discuss with my partner here. So I'll be borrowing him, if you don't mind," he said. His arm twitched downward again and Duo uneasily refrained from glaring at the older officer too harshly at the harmless reminder.

There was definitely a hint of suspicion in Mayfield's critical, hazel brown eyes, though they didn't know what to quite make of this situation. Now that Duo's smiley façade had been cracked, by means of a simple tug, he could sense a significant atmosphere of tension between him and the longhaired man, and he was more than willing to nod in agreement. The American's eyes growled at him, in frustration, as he said, "Uh, yeah. That's fine. I'd better be taking this kid into the station, at any rate." His weight shifted cautiously to his other leg, ready to part from the intimidating pair. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Maxwell, and I guess I'll see you later, Yuy. Good luck with your fiancé, then."

"Thanks," Heero bid him tonelessly, his fingers still clenched securely around Duo's braid, concealed. "Take care of yourself, Mayfield."

Duo dutifully plastered on another wide, accommodating grin when his impolite target slipped away from, just as he'd been so close to ripping him to shreds for the absolute disrespect he'd shown his best friend. He could still feel his teeth gnashing in frustration as the older officer slipped into the driver's seat and shut the doors. As soon as he felt the corners of his mouth sinking into a more appropriate expression, he felt the fingers squeezing again around his braid, tugging in warning. God, but would he have loved to snatch it out of his grip and go after that snot, but he knew better than to fuck with Heero, especially when he was serious about something. He considered nearly ripping his scalp from his skull an indication of seriousness.

And so, he had to watch his prey simply drive out without so much as even a good warning and at another demanding tug, he hollowly waved him off. Heero then let his long tail of hair free, once the black-and-white had begun to accelerate off down the street, and felt the whirlwind that was an angry Duo Maxwell turn around and breathe steam at him. But he was ready for it.

Inside the police car, the departing officer shifted to glance one last, curious time into the rearview mirror and take one last look at the upstart Gundam pilot who'd risen to distinction in the department only to bow out a few years later. Before the angle grew too great and they disappeared, he caught a glimpse of Heero Yuy and his partner Duo Maxwell, clearly raising voices to each other. Actually, Heero looked rather calm—it was his friend who was sufficiently burned up and jabbing a finger in the air at his side.

He blinked, and the image was gone. Now only the sleepy, snow-trimmed brick and glass faces of stores and buildings and parked cars filled the mirror. With a shrug, it let it go from his mind and focused on driving.

But just because he couldn't see it didn't mean that it wasn't happening.

"Well, if you want to sit there and listen to that jerk sneer at you and sneer at what you've done for the world, then by all means, Heero, go ahead! But if ever see him again, I swear he'll get set straight! I'm not gonna stand for it. Don't expect me to sit back and watch you take that abuse. He knows perfectly well who you are and he treats you like some run-of-the-mill greedy, opportunist teenager. After all the shit you had to go through, all of us had to go through to obtain peace, you'd think that people would be able to respect that."

Heero just sadly shook his head, letting out a long and weary sigh so that his shoulders slumped visibly. "Duo, let's just go back to the car," he said reaching up and putting his hand on his arm.

Not surprisingly, it was shrugged off lividly. The American's violet eyes flew open in offense before narrowing and his sharp akimbo stance tightened up, looked more threatening. "So you'll just take it?"

"I don't want to have an argument here. These kids don't need to hear it," he said plainly, trying to use his blue eyes to his advantage to help plead Duo to just drop it.

After a few seconds of their stand-off, with the American trying to get it across into the Japanese's occasionally dense skull that there had been a wrong committed and it was not going to be ignored, and the Japanese trying to silently ask him to just let the issue slide, it was already over. Giving a blustery sigh, Duo finally caved in to those eyes. But he wouldn't admit it and proudly stalked off the sidewalk and started walking down the street. Heero sighed again and followed him, knowing that this would be no concise battle, and that it would indeed be a battle.

The Wing pilot easily loped up and began walking beside the other, moody pilot, watching him for a moment. Yep. Definitely not happy. But that would not mean he'd pick up the topic again, no matter how much he had to watch his friend sulk. He was going to miss the sound of his voice if he was too stubborn to speak up, but it was better than having him worrying needlessly about him. Heero's face took on a delicate, fatigued smile, satisfied for the moment, and he turned his gaze to look at the skyline, absorbing the surroundings quietly.

Silence kept itself for a few minutes, just Heero and Duo walking, but it couldn't last. Eventually, Duo grew tired of trying to ignore the swelling offense he felt at how Heero had been treated, while it was constantly ringing in his head, and touching an even deeper fear in himself that if Heero, who had single-handedly preserved the Earth, was unappreciated, that he was doomed to live a wretched life himself.

With his fists balled tightly in the pocket of his jacket and the steam from his breath clouding in his face as he moved, Duo kept his severe expression trained on the blacktop below his feet. "I just don't think he's got any right to treat you like that," he said stiffly.

Heero's response was automatic, expectant, but calm and his eyes remained on the skyline. "Maybe he doesn't, but I have no right to start a fight with him about it."

Duo exploded with frustration. He planted his feet stubbornly and whipped his body around to confront him, the long tail of hair making an equally stern arc through the air as he spun. Those violet eyes were burning, and he jabbed his finger angrily at the ground. "The hell you don't! You saved him and everybody else on this planet a lifetime of misery, picking through rubble and living in fall-out shelters, and you didn't _not_ pay for it, either! Frankly, I'm sick of everybody just spitting at what you've done for them and thinking they can shove you around. They should damn well pay attention in history class, because we're the ones who are going to be remembered in years to come, and if they think they've got the right—no, the _balls_—to disrespect us—"

"Duo, it's fine. Let it go, please. I can't have you hurting yourself from too much ranting," Heero interrupted, with a slightly amused smile sifting through.

His disgruntled face became even more crooked. "Har-har-har. Very funny, Yuy. I'm being serious here."

"You're also sinking down to his level by doing this, you know. That's half the victory for them. And besides, you're only feeding an unnecessary fire."

"Oh, I really don't think so. And at his level, he's staring up at the soles of our shoes and he's got to squint," Duo said sourly, scowling at the image of Mayfield in his head, making a sneer at Heero's face and laughing. "And it happens to be very necessary."

"No? Well, that's not how it looks like to me from here."

Duo's hands were at his hip again. "I'm starting to think you need your eyes checked, Heero. When was the last time you actually went to get those baby-blues checked out?"

Heero lifted an eyebrow at him plainly. "For your information, three months ago."

"And?"

"20/20, as always."

"Things change."

This is when even the Wing pilot's threshold of tolerance was crossed and he rolled his eyes dramatically, for once, and groaned, "Oh, god, Duo, give me a break! Drop it!"

"I'd give a break in a second, you know that. It's everybody else I'm worrying about. Hell, I'm the one who's given you more breaks than anyone else, and a couple of break-_outs_ out of some serious shit, too," came the reasoning response, and Duo pointed a finger at him to emphasize this point.

Heero just gave him a bewildered look, shaking his head of disheveled brown hair. "Do you realize how little sense your starting to make?"

"Hey, I'm running with this! It's a rant— so get off my back!"

"I will, as soon as _you_ get of Mayfield's."

"Heero, you know, if you weren't just too damn cute for your own good, I'd have the right mind to knock you over the head and hope you find some sense rattling around in there!"

"But you may not be of the right mind, and that's the way I prefer it. And I'd prefer if you just let the issue be, because I've already come to terms with it and I just don't want to fight."

The Japanese pilot stood there, staring at Duo, awaiting his brash mouth to run off with him, pouring out arguments or just plain cursing out. But he didn't, and a few seconds later, he had just let out a sigh, signaling his admission of defeat. But Heero wasn't stupid—he could see that that defeated concern still simmering just below the surface in those moody, pouting violet eyes that remained on him, over a minute frown and his hands edgily stuffed in his pockets. Actually, it was a rather charming look on him, along with the color in his cheeks brought on the by the chilled Seattle air in December. Heero allowed a smile to take control of his face and Duo's sour look relented a little at the sign of affection, though it was still painfully obvious how much he hated to be wrong, how much he hated being proven so by his best friend.

So he extended his arm to wrap it around Duo's shoulders. The American still stubbornly looked away, not completely willing to accept his defeat, but he loosened up considerably when he felt Heero press him against his side in a friendly squeeze.

"Come on, Duo. Don't look so sour. If _I_ can smile" When he still did not give a response, only stand near the edge of the street, staring at the slush decorating the cold blacktop, Heero laughed quietly in that husky voice and tilted his head. "I'm flattered, Duo, I really am. But you shouldn't worry about me so much."

Finally, that flushed American face turned up to look at him. They were still pressed together, and Duo felt his side warming up pleasantly, but somehow he felt they were impossibly close and he could count every eyelash that fluttered over those blue eyes of his. His heart stammered, his blood thundered, and he was very occupied with the thought of why he didn't turn away, only smile softly at him—No! He couldn't be thinking like this, came the fearful shout from his brain; he couldn't be imagining himself kissing an engaged man, let alone Heero Yuy! If he thought about it, hell, he just might do it!

The thought was ever so tantalizing, though. God, but was he hottest thing on two legs he'd ever seen, even above his precious, polished Deathscythe.

But Heero only chuckled and leaned back, pulling with him the fine spiderwebs of tension apart and taking his tempting lips just far enough away as he said, nudging Duo's shoulder, "We're supposed to be on vacation, remember?"


	12. A Word In Someone's Ear

Chapter 12

"A Word in Someone's Ear"

Heero brushed the metallic keys with his fingers, moving it around in his palm, his thoughts turning as he glanced over to his best man.

They now traveled down the sidewalk where they'd been forced to abandon the car at the sight of the impassible block of traffic. Now the slushy streets were less crowded, though they still moved sluggishly, choked by the towing trucks and police cars traveling the streets. Duo kept pace silently, hands stuffed in his pockets, chin tucked down so it brushed the collar of his shirt, trails of steam noiselessly leaving his half-way parted lips.

It was so easy to see that he hated to lose that Heero had to keep himself from cracking a smile. Doing so would merit another grouchy, stubborn denunciation on letting people use him for a doormat. It _was _difficult, though, when the American acted as such, with the high blush on his face a combination result of his wounded pride and the winter chill.

He hadn't spoken up after Heero had managed to calm him down—just enough so he wasn't tempted to actually commit any acts of verbal or physical fury against Mayfield for how he'd treated him. Well, that was completely accurate. No doubt, with that stormy expression simmering just below the surface, that temptation would never lose its appeal, but now Duo lacked the justification to make the man miserable for the disrespect he'd shown. After all, should Mayfield show up with a convenient shiner and a few painfully misplaced teeth, Duo would most fear Heero catching word rather than the authorities appearing on his doorstep.

The authorities—those he could sidestep. Heero would be standing on the walk when he tried to sneak out the back way.

_He knows that. And does it ever frustrate him_, Heero thought to himself, unable to resist at least the tiniest smirk at Duo's display.

He still proudly refused to speak up, to make his wonderfully keen and darkly sarcastic conversational jabs at him, to crack a smile at him just to fill the space. Heero silently watched his profile as they continued walking toward the parked car, silently tracing the hazy trail of steam from his lips into the chill air with his eyes.

For a second, he let himself indulge in a feeling of amazement, seeing how much they had physically changed—Duo had grown taller, filled out, physically caught up with his aged mind. It was a strange sensation in the beginning of adulthood to wait for your skin to grow around you, for the body to catch up with the years of the mind. Heero felt his own case had been particularly bad—trying to simultaneously find a way to experience things he'd never had in childhood and also find his way in life. He'd barely done any of the things Duo had, he was sure.

From his understanding, though he had no parental structure, he had had grown up in the presence of kids his age. Imagining him on the street of L-2, no easy place to live by any stretch of the imagination, especially before the war, as a scruffy, loud-mouthed pickpocket was easy to do, picturing little smudges of dirt under his eyes, tangles in his hair, scuffs on his knees and fingers. Considering how long it had been ten years ago, he would have had to been growing it since he was very young.

No one would dare mistake him for a girl now, even as that hair flicked at the back of his knees as he moved, proud, long-legged, and limber. That precious tail of his had become his trademark. He had never seen it on another human being, an external item that had become one of his exclusive idiosyncrasies. It was mesmerizing in the most innocent way, just moving in the slightest. It was a splash of color against his dark coat, an inviting thing to watch. He wondered if he would ever let him hold it again, just to quench the certain mystery that hung around it, but he doubted it, considering how he'd used it to help silence him with a less-than-gentle method.

When they approached the parked, sleeping car, entrapped by Duo's pride-filled silence still and preparing to naturally drift apart to their corresponding sides, Heero disrupted that rhythm by stopping to call out his comrade's name and make him turn out of begrudging curiosity. But when he registered that the pair of keys arching toward him through the air and automatically a hand pulled itself from the pocket to catch it, his sullen expression melted into genuine surprise, loosing the brooding pout it had been so preoccupied with.

He looked at Heero with a little disbelief as he walked past him and pulled the passenger door open, his jaw growing looser and looser by the second.

Disbelieving eyes glanced at the carved metal in his palm, then back up at the Japanese man. "So, you're not mad at me or anything?"

Heero considered teasing him for a moment, of plastering on an inaccessible look, of frowning at him just to joke around, but just shook his head. "No," he said. "What's there to be angry about?"

"Well, Mayfield treating you like a little shit, for one thing, but" He again looked at the set of keys as if they were an illusion. Driving Heero's car was something akin to laying hands on his Gundam. "You serious?"

"If it'll make you happy, go ahead," came the response, with a fond tilt of the lips.

A little of Shinigami's own grin rose to the surface. "Well, maybe a _little_," he exaggerated, his mischief already flashing like music in his eyes.

He wrapped his fingers around the key and quickly making his way around the Camaro, back in a more familiar disposition. Though Duo's devilish smile usually promised trouble of some kind and delivered on that promise thoroughly, Heero felt the satisfaction of seeing his friend's face light up again as he slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door close behind him, mutely smiling himself. The American was already eagerly revving the ignition and curling and uncurling his fingers around the steering wheel, eyeing the open road as if were prey to be hunted and taken.

"Just try not to kill anything, or any_one_ for that matter," Heero added, not so subtly reaching up for that seatbelt at his shoulder.

"Pacifist," Duo teased, throwing the gear into drive.

* * *

Trowa hovered at the window silently, simply staring out the frost-rimmed window out into the winter snow that had settled around the house, burdening the trees, dusting lightly from the skies. Like a physical trail into his memory, the scattered footsteps leading into the pines brought a little smile to his face while he lifted the mug of hot chocolate to his curling lips, enjoying the simple rhapsody of a good view and warm steam on his face. Begging faithfully at his feet from the pile of rumpled blankets on the floor, Numskull sat wagging his tail hopefully with his tiny pink tongue falling out the side of his mouth. A few moments later, his head flickered over to look at the new person entering the room and scurried back as he pressed up against Trowa's back, assertively pulling him close all of a sudden and causing Trowa to accidentally take too-large of a swig and nearly burn his mouth.

Quatre laughed as he loosened his grip around his lover a little, feeling the texture of the sweater he wore against the sensitive skin on the inside of his forearm. Between his arms, Trowa regained himself and coughed a little. The blonde smirked and patted him on the back in playful consolation. "Did I surprise you?"

Trowa reached up and thumped himself on the chest, adjusting to the sting of very, very warm chocolate going down his throat. "No," he lied, coughing again and putting the rim of the steaming mug again to his lips. Whatever automatic trust he put into Quatre, that he wouldn't repeat his amusing little trick again, was broken when he nudged him again and he went into a peel of laughter as the poor man sputtered out through his scalded lips.

The blonde giggled shamelessly at the sight of the formerly stoic Gundam pilot grimacing and smacking his tender lips and pressed his face into the exposed skin on his neck to silence even more laughter. As soon as Trowa had calmed down and finally overcome his coughing fit and accepted the fact, though begrudgingly, that he was going to have a tender mouth for the rest of the day, he just sighed and leaned back into Quatre, that smiling expression pressed into the nape of his neck.

"You know, I think you're very cute when you're caught off guard," said the Arabian after a few moments, letting loose another soft laugh.

Trowa looked down at the mug of hot chocolate, twisting his expression. "Funny. I didn't feel cute just a second ago."

Quatre snickered again and sidled up to his side, an arm still safely wrapped around his midsection. "You just have to trust me," he said brightly, rising to his tip-toes to plant a kiss just to the side of the Heavyarms pilot's mouth, aware that he was still a little burnt. As he pulled away, a cherry-red blush filled his face, though it was more of amusement than embarrassment. "Uh, Trowa," he pointed out, resisting another peal of laughter by momentarily leaning his head on the taller man's shoulder, "I think you're wearing my shirt."

"And you mine," he responded casually, lifting an eyebrow as his gaze drifted out the window again.

"Uh-oh," Quatre drawled abruptly, his bright smile softening and intensifying into concern. Beneath that stare, he could make anyone feel like they were the last soul on Earth, and he would do anything, even risk and sacrifice his life, just to ensure their safety. "I know that look, Trowa. What's wrong?" Still holding on to him, he could feel the sigh swell up from deep in his lover's chest and escape slowly, fogging up on the glass as he stared out at the slush-lined driveway, skimming over the tops of the dark pines, considering carefully.

Quatre watched his face carefully, almost as if he had begun to read it as if it were a book in a language only he understood. He blinked and took a step back, his eyes still trained on Trowa's profile but filling with a slightly different shade of concern. "You don't mean Oh, come on, what's there to be worried about Heero?" Quatre asked, smiling gently. "This is as happy as I've seen him in a long while. Everything concerning the wedding has long been planned out, there's been no difficulty contacting anyone, and when he gets lonely, he's got Duo to cheer him up. He's hardly been in a bad mood since he got here and—"

That's when Trowa tilted his head toward him, his face set firmly. "That's what worries me."

The Arabian straightened up, taking his weight off his fiancé's side and blinking once as realization washed over him, bringing with it a small pang of alarm. He could feel it, small but distinct, formulate instantly in the pit of his stomach, with suspicion that it wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

"Oh," he said quietly, burying his eyes in Trowa's for a second as his mind began to mull. "That is something to worry about—but they've always had that certain chemistry. Heero and Duo always worked fantastically together, even when they first met in the war, even though Heero said he burglarized the parts from Duo's Gundam. Heero considers him his first real friend, his best friend. He'd do anything to help him, at a moment's notice, and so would Duo. It's just the way they are—I couldn't imagine them not getting along together. B-b-but doesn't mean that Heero Does it?"

Trowa lifted an eyebrow at him, causing the blonde to hesitate again, replaying the words over in his head with an almost dreadful resonance, realizing the implications buried within it. He let out a tiny gape again, and Trowa continued, glancing back out to the window. "Don't be too fast to overlook those facts," he said, drawn by the sound of a motor revving surging up the driveway, its surface gleaming, peeking through the heavy cover of low pine boughs. Watching the two approach calmly, he felt Quatre come around to look out the window as well, though the sense of concern had become almost palpable off him.

"You know what they say about friendship and love," Trowa said quietly.

Quatre suddenly intertwined their fingers, drawing the Heavyarms pilot's attention back to him and the increasingly troubled expression he wore. "Now, wait, you know what that would mean. We can't go around making conjectures like that. Especially at a time like this," he told him, though the look in his eye was that of mild confusion. The idea of this unspoken revelation between their friends was most unsettling, and the more he thought about it, the more he became filled with anxiety.

"Just before his wedding to the Vice Foreign Minister," Trowa finished solemnly for him, rubbing his thumb over the back of Quatre's hand, now becoming even more worried by his lover's worry. "Yes, I'm not suggesting we confront him on it as soon as he comes through the door. But I know that something's there. It's not something I just can ignore."

"But I haven't felt anything like that from either of them. If there had ever been a tension between them, or even from Heero toward Duo, I'm sure I would have sensed it."

"Just because you haven't seen it doesn't mean it isn't there. You know how Duo would wear a smile while the sky fell just to make people think he was anything but the least bit troubled. Heero's never been exactly unreservedly emotional, either," he reasoned soberly. "It may not even show in our presence."

"Trowa, this is serious," Quatre pleaded with him, tugging his arm as his eyes started to drift toward the frosted windowpane. "If there was something of that magnitude unspoken between them, would he have ever agreed to marry Relena? Heero's more vulnerable than he'd like to admit at times, and if he felt anything for Duo, he would have sought him out, right?"

The taller pilot again let his gaze drift to the window, the uneasy atmosphere of their conversation perpetuated by the image of the aforementioned two appearing out of Heero's car parked in the driveway, the air outside throbbing from Duo's loud choice of radio station as he swung open the driver's side door. The pre-colony rock and roll ceased abruptly as he appeared with the keys clenched in his hand, grinned over the top of the car at Heero standing up at the opposite side, and began happily talking with him, his lips moving silently from behind the glass. Whatever the comment, it soon brought a smirk to Heero's lips that would have been unthinkable nearly a decade ago, and he responded with what seemed to be his own clever comeback, making the American open his mouth wide in a laugh, jauntily stepping back to slam the door shut. A moment later Heero caught the keys out of the air as they flew in an arc toward him and shut his door as well. Steam trailed up from their mouths as Duo laughed boisterously, as Heero smiled and snorted, both walking up toward the front step through the snow.

Making a little skip in his step as he turned to face Heero, walking backward to keep the conversation going in full swing, they seemed to be casually chatting, but the impression that was made in the window overhead while watching the idyllic scene, only seeming to validate the argument Trowa made, was anything but light. It made Quatre's hand clench a little tighter, his brow a little more tense, his voice more urgent, but the quaver gone, his tone carefully composed.

"I don't want to jump to conclusions, Trowa. You know how much harm that could cause if this is really what's going on"

Trowa nodded gravely.

Quatre swallowed the mild lump in his throat before it could escalate. "W-we'll just have to watch. Look for signs. If there's something there, we'll have to find it on our own. We can't confront Heero on this—he was frightened half to death today, thinking Duo would find his paintings."

"Understandable, considering their subject matter."

The blonde pilot closed his eyes, hanging his head slightly. "The last thing I want is a repeat of those years, Trowa. I never want to see him like he was then. It was horrible. It makes me almost ill just remembering that expression on his face. I want—"

"To see him like he is now? Happy?"

Quatre groped for words again. The idea had blindsided him, and now he was finding connections right and left. It did not make him feel any better. "Trowa, this is nothing to be taken lightly. If we go around carelessly, we could make the situation a hundred times worse, especially with Heero's way with dealing with things like this."

"All right. We'll watch, but we'll be careful about it," he answered, tightening his hand around his fiancé's. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"You mean you're sure he's not in love with Duo?"

That's when Trowa fixed his eyes on the glass and did not move, other than to tighten the grip he had on his hand.

Quatre looked at him again, then out the window, and felt the lump returning when Duo packed a snowball in his hands and it burst into glittering clumps a split second later in the air when he dove to hit the deck, Heero's own snowball whizzing over his head. It hit the window and fragmented into wet slush, sending Numskull flying down the stairs, yapping at the noise. He all of a sudden felt a little heavier than he had been only a few short minutes before.

* * *

A/N: This one's a little short, I know, but I'm trying to get so much work done right now that I think I'm gonna have to pull back on the word count per chapter if I want to keep turning out chapters. Besides, I thought the content would be sufficient. ;) Happy 4th, ev'rybody! 


	13. Let It Snow

Chapter 13

"Let it Snow"

Quatre took his time walking down the stairs, following his fiancé and finding it nearly impossible to concentrate anymore. Instead, his head swum with thoughts of the most troubling sort, though he knew how ridiculous it seemed to be so worried by the happiness of his friend. All those years after the war, he had never even considered Heero to be in danger at all—of all the veterans of the war, he was the last Quatre had ever expected to find in the state he had been. While depression and a loss of sense of purpose had been slowly decaying him, driving him to a new edge, Quatre had imagined him as he always had seemed to be, living for and prospering in freedom. A lone wolf, who preferred it no other way, with nary a constraint to fetter him. But obviously something had been missing. And now, as soon as he was able to bring himself to smile again, Quatre was unable to even think straight from worry.

It was a sickness of concern that almost matched that of the day he had found a copy of _The St. Petersburg Times _sitting quaintly on his desk, proclaiming the death of Heero Yuy, infamous war hero in a seedy hotel with no suicide note and the mysterious, unidentified photograph at his bedside. He remembered feeling the burning sensation as he had dropped the coffee he held, spilling over his feet and soaking into the carpet permanently. And as soon as he had reached the bottom stair, he blinked and realized that Trowa had gone far ahead of him and was no longer in sight.

Not surprising, though. He had been in the middle of a very heavy train of thought. He could still feel the sting in his skin and the stab of pain in his chest from that day, and now was having trouble shaking the sensation. The blonde stopped and glanced around, taken aback. His fiancé was no where in sight, and in the distant foyer he thought he heard the door swinging shut. A few moments later, a string of yipping and yapping filtered in from outside. He wondered with certain chagrin how long he'd been standing there, engrossed in memory.

"This is terrible," Quatre said sadly, gently sighing and rubbing at the pain and ache centered just off the center of his chest. "I felt so much guilt for failing to be there for him when he needed it the most. And now I've never been so afraid to see him so happy." For a moment, he felt himself about to find himself in the middle of another less than pleasant reverie, seeing himself walking down a stark white corridor behind an emergency room assistant.

"_Are you a relative to the patient in anyway, Mr. Winner?"_

"Psst! Yo, Quat!"

He nearly jumped out of his skin to hear the voice coming out of the wall from behind him, and whirled around, purely nerves, to see a black and brown and blue and peach lump with a bright red nose crawling through an opened window. Quatre quickly let out the breath he'd been holding, his heart now thrumming against that achy spot. "Duo."

The American had one leg over the windowpane and planted on the carpet when he grinned at him. "The one and only," he said, chuckling to himself as he hoisted himself through, bringing with him clumps of snow from his boots and snowflakes scattered in his hair and clothes. "Did ya miss me _already_? I'm touched!"

"What are you doing?" Quatre asked, after he'd managed to calm his nerves. He looked curiously at Duo's interesting choice of entrance. "You weren't planning on burglarizing the house while you're here?"

"Nah, that'd be too easy. I'd prefer a little bit of a challenge, ya know," he piped up, still speaking rather breathlessly and with a sly smile. He hurried over to the blonde pilot, his face flushed from the cold. "Come on! You're mine! I'm not letting that little cheat snatch you up _too_!"

"What?"

"He can't know I drafted you onto my side—get moving!" Duo told him hurriedly, taking his friend by the arm and propelling him toward the door. If he didn't know Duo better, he still would have seen that he enjoyed withholding even an ounce of explanation from the devilish grin. "Gloves, mittens, hats, whatever! You're gonna need em, Quat! Can't go outside like _that_ and expect to fight a decent battle! Hell, you're not even wearing socks!"

That was when Quatre forcibly planted his feet and turned to face Duo. He was unable to resist the tiniest quirk of a smile when he asked just what the hell he meant by that, and who couldn't? When he found himself on the receiving end of a brilliant and genuine smile, Quatre had to admit it was a rather infectious thing. The American still had his hand tightly around his arm, tugging him toward the door even as he refused to move.

"Duo, care to tell me where this battle is being waged?" he inquired, running his eyes over his face. It was flushed a cherry-colored tone of pink, darkest on the tips of his ears and nose, from the December cold, and his messy bangs poked out from underneath a black winter cap in amusing little tufts. Resisting a smile now was impossible. "You know you look no more than twelve years old in that hat, Duo."

"Why, thank you!" the Deathscythe pilot grinned proudly. He even let off a wicked little laugh. "It's Heero's. Snatched it out of the glove department before he could lock me out of the house. Maybe you can tell him he's gonna hafta to better than _that _to get Duo Maxwell, cause he doesn't seem to believe it from me." He then sidled behind his blonde friend in a distinctly thievish way, moving silently in a pair of beat up Converse, and put the palms of both his hands on his back. "We can't talk here. After all, the battle will come to _us_ if we don't keep moving, Q!"

And with that, he propelled his friend forward toward the front door. When they had skirted around the far wall of the house and made it to the foyer, with Duo constantly grinning as he flashed cautionary glances to each of the windows outside, staring into the falling snow for any flashes of movement, and Quatre confused but resignedly amused.

"Are we there yet?"

But Duo barely paid attention to him, he was too busy squinting at the obscured glass window on the door. He opened the chest full of winter clothing sitting against the wall with his heel, still watching. "Okay, if we move quick, maybe we can get back out the window. Well, come on, get ready! Heero's been on that door like stink on a dog—swear to god, he's throwing those snowballs to kill, too. It's not like he needs Trowa's on his side, he's a walking weapon all by his lonesome. I'm starting to think he's got a back-up best man somewhere, because he's just _whipping_ those things at me—"

Quatre blinked, pausing as he was halfway to pulling on his gloves for the second time that afternoon. "Heero? In a snowball fight?"

Suddenly he found a hand forcibly clamped over his mouth. Duo moved so quickly that his braid swung around and thwapped Quatre in the shoulder. "Shh!" His eyes shifted slowly back and forth in their sockets, almost as if fearful of making too much noise. He was craning his head warily around, pinching his lips together suspiciously when he whispered to Quatre, "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" he mumbled through the palm slapped over his mouth, still pinned against his friend as he strained to hear something that was probably not there at all.

Duo's bright eyes squinted out through the obscured glass in the front door window and he frowned a little. "Well, maybe it was nothing. I'm hearing things again, but they're notin my head this time—"

Then, very suddenly, Quatre noticed the energetic ball of scruffy brown fur named Numskull sitting at the foot of the stairs and staring upward, happily tilting his head back and forth, the tip of his pink tongue sticking out. And, looking as best as he could over Duo's arm, he followed the dog's look, his eyes widened, and he lunged out of the American's grip just in time to let the incoming fistful of ice and snow pass him and hit its target, splattering cold slush across the side of Duo's face. The sloppy snowball burst and started dripping down the front of Duo's unzipped jacket, sending the ice and snow into his clothes and against the skin of his chest.

Before he could even wipe the slush from his eyes, his voice had leapt to the top of his throat.

"Jesus mother fucking hell! _Heero!_" he howled as he quickly flashed his attacker an obscene finger gesture, catching a glimpse of a rather depraved smirk on the Japanese pilot's face before he spurted back up the stairs and headed for his another opened window on the second story.

He started brandishing a fist at his disappearing figure as Quatre started laughing riotously from where he sat on the floor, watching the cold ice pour down the front of him.

"Cheater! Just cause it's your damn house don't mean you get to throw out all the rules!" Duo called after him.

And when Heero promptly answered, "No, it doesn't. I get to make them in the _first_ place!" Quatre even heard him let out a bona fide carefree laugh before he dropped out of the window and escaped to the outside.

Quatre was still giggling when Numskull trotted over and wagged his tail excitedly at his side, and Duo turned a perfectly calm but venomous look on him, ramrod straight and stone still with a trail of melted snow still trailing down the side of his face.

"This means war, you know"

"Not another one," the blonde groaned, unable to wipe the smile off his face even though that was what Duo's fierce expression very clearly told him to do.

* * *

Some time later, the sun had surreptitiously crawled down toward the horizon without much notice, and the front door found itself doused with a layer of snow crumbling off the four pilots who came piling back in through it, craving the warmth of the heated house. As the entire lot began kicking off boots and one pair of beat-up Converse with snow-encrusted laces, the scruffy Numskull flew in over the threshold a moment before Quatre shut it behind him. He couldn't help a smile when the tiny dog when scampering up to Trowa, pawing at his leg, and then, just as suddenly, when screaming around the corner into the kitchen, darting clean between Duo's legs, making the American burst into laughter. Heero, standing a little ways behind him, cracked another one of his rarer smiles as he threw his boots and scarf into the open closet in a haphazard pile before following him out into the den. Not even a few moments later, the sound of Duo laughing and boasting of his triumphs over Heero (though he conveniently forgot to mention the Japanese pilot catching him off guard and landing three snowballs neatly on the back of his head) and Heero ever so subtly taunting him in return. Quatre felt his hand tighten without permission on the doorknob at the sound, and a hurt in his heart that he should find so much disquiet in his friend's happiness.

He glanced up and Trowa was standing in the foyer, barefoot, still with a hat pulled over his ears, with a look that solemnly confirmed they shared the same thought. He didn't want to talk about it anymore than he had already had—the last thing he wanted to was to be continually reading into every little thing between them and wondering if how it would effect everyone, to be constantly ridden with guilt to be scrutinizing Heero's happiness. He walked past Trowa, caught his hand for a moment and squeezed, looking in his eyes and hoping he didn't look as torn up as he felt, before continuing into kitchen. He prayed that a few rounds of hot cocoa and Duo's animated storytelling would erase it from his mind, if only for a while.

Fortunately, he had more than enough war spoils to boast slyly about and was still doing so when Quatre found the whole group, spread out comfortably across the two couches and one love seat squeezed cozily into the entertainment room, with a tray of four steaming mugs. Heero lay sprawled out comfortably on the largest of the couches, looking more relaxed than ever, a distant, lazy smile at pulling his lips as he lay there like a lion satiated from the hunt and relaxing in his kingdom. He tore his eyes away from Duo, who had just recently leapt off the other, downy couch to turn on some music, to take his mug from Quatre and snatch the pair of frozen chocolate cupcakes sitting next to it. His smile widened as he thanked him, and it made Quatre's heart settle a little.

_How could it possibly be bad for him, to be this happy?_

Duo was currently crouched by the stereo system in the cabinet, underneath the television, narrating in rambling, giddy tones as he picked through the music library amassed there. Inevitably a few impish remarks came flying their way, as he inquired to whom exactly all the Jimmy Buffet CDs belonged.

Quatre left the ceramic mug labeled in blocky red letters, _World's Greatest Golfer_', on the side table by the other couch before taking his and Trowa's over to the loveseat and settling comfortably in with his fiancé, though waiting there for both of them was a certain, shared unrest. As the blonde found himself inevitably sitting with his legs over his lover's lap, after a few moments of trying to configure them into a more conservative position, and then realizing how bashful that was, considering how much Duo and Heero both understood and warmly accepted their relationship. It was all he could do not to let out a little blush as Trowa smiled at him, carefully handling the mug of hot liquid around him.

"Oi, oi," Duo drawled abruptly, his crouched body giving a little mischievous wiggle as he snickered to himself, turning around. On his haunches, his long plait of hair trailed on the carpet like a serpent, and the glint in his eye matched the sentiment. He wagged a CD case in the air like it was a smoking gun. "All right, I want y'all to fess up and tell me who's the lucky owner of this mint-condition Kenny G disc?"

Everyone immediately pointed to someone else.

Duo eyed each craftily, then smiled. "Okay, I understand," he said. "It's _Relena's,_ then."

"Pick one, Duo, before we wither and die," Heero drawled at him, smiling smugly as he bit into another of the frozen chocolate pastries in a most taunting way, as far as the American was concerned, head lying on the couch cushions so his damp hair fell around his face, making him look so young when he actually smiled in return.

"If _only_," came the response, with a special emphasis when he glanced at the Japanese man. "Patience is a virtue, and it ain't expensive, yanno, Ro!" Duo then turned back around and got back to faithfully digging through the collection, more than once stopping and taking a double take at the pleasantly odd and unexpected things he found there. He picked a few up, flashed the cover toward the group behind him, and asked incredulously, "All right, seriously now—I want to know who has even _heard_ of the Pixies and the Velvet Underground in this room?"

"Those would be Heero's," Trowa said, smirking a little. "Anything remotely eccentric you find in there you may accredit to him. Personally, I do just fine sticking with classics, but he's the one who insists on buying all the music from every rock and roll pre-colony band he can lay his hands on. All in one go."

"And then blaring it at all hours of the night," Quatre added on.

"It's more fun than paying bills," Heero purred, taking another bite out of the cupcake and cleaning off the spot of cream left on his upper lip with a casual swipe of his tongue. After a moment of Duo looking up at him in what was genuine surprise, he spoke up again, turning his head to look back at him. "Something wrong with that, or just not a fan?"

"It's just that—you never—I thought whoa," he muttered to himself, lying that one on a growing pile of CDs he approved. He shook his head to himself as he finally selected one, "Sweet tooth, punk rock music—what should I expect next? God forbid, Disney movies?"

Quatre suddenly snickered rather devilishly from the couch, wrapping his hands around the mug and holding it up to his growing smile. "You know, Duo, Heero's awfully fond of Snow White," he said teasingly, not flinching for an instant when the Japanese man's face pinched tight, sour with distaste, and glared at him upside down, still refusing to move from his comfortable position.

"I am_ not_," he retorted firmly, looking positively and thoroughly agitated at that.

"You know every line, though, Heero." Trowa joined in with equal enjoyment.

He pursed his lips at the other pilot, folded his arms on his chest, and let himself sink back into the couch, glaring up at the ceiling. "How could I not, when Relena watches it every other day," he mumbled. "I know them because they've been burned into my mind. I'm just too intelligent—my memory is too sharp for my own good."

Duo let out a crowing laugh at that, sitting up, grinning wider than was polite. "_Right_! You enjoy it! Admit it!"

Heero's glare found its way to him. "I do not."

"Formidable," the American glibly complimented him on the fury his blue eyes radiated, "but I don't melt so easily."

"I do not," he reiterated firmly. "I do not enjoy a moment of that movie nor the obnoxious magical creatures nor the cliché plot lines, and I especially do _not_ being compared to a spotless prince on a white horse at every single forced viewing of that ridiculous fairy tale."

Duo lifted his eyebrows. "Ooh, someone's a little touchy about this subject, aren't they?"

Quatre began singing softly from across the room, the laughter growing louder in his voice as he continued. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the grumpiest of them all—?"

Duo threw back his head and laughed, and was shortly joined by Trowa and Quatre, despite the thoroughly disgruntled look on Heero's face as he threw a hand over his eyes and shook his head.

Now that the group had finally had its collective fill of tormenting the poor Wing pilot, and, even more surprisingly, Duo had finally chosen a musical selection, the American flopped back onto his own private couch and was just demanding that he know in extensive juicy detail about Trowa's proposal when, from under the opening chords of _London Calling_, there went through the empty house a high-pitched shrill, making Heero and Trowa simultaneously sit up in surprise, though Quatre was too busily talking with Duo to hear it.

"Someone's phone's ringing," Trowa announced, glancing around the room. He winced. "Ugh, what is that noise? It sounds like a screaming baby or something."

Heero shrugged, though he was still twisted around, half-way reclined on the couch, craning his head so he could squint out at the den, where the hideous noise echoed again a few moments later, this time clearer, even over the raspy croon of Joe Strummer's voice pouring from the speakers. "That _is_ a screaming baby," he said, grimacing. "Not mine, though," he added quickly.

"Oh, that's mine," Duo piped up quickly, fluidly uncoiling from his position on the couch and already halfway to the doorway when everybody's stare fell on him, silently all asking the same question that Quatre piped up to voice, taking on a paler tint than normal.

"Why, may I ask, do you have the sound of a screaming infant as your ring tone, pray tell?"

The American shot him one last impish smile before he made it out of the room. "Just to torment the poor suckers listening in. It's the best when it goes off in the subway. Makes the edgy businessmen secretly jump out of their skin," he said, laughing deliciously. "What else is a cell phone for?"

Heero had a pillow crushed against each ear as Duo left, striding quickly out into the den and heading doggedly for the garage door, from where each identical, excruciating sound came. The American went breezily down the stairs into his temporary lodging, whistling pleasantly as he fished the source of the "screaming baby" from inside his beat-up backpack, lying almost lonely at the foot of the bed. He flipped it open, not bothering to take a look at who was calling, and settled himself in the tire swing that oddly hung down from the ceiling. He made himself comfortable as he turned in a slow, spinning circle from his momentum.

"Duo here," he answered cheerfully. "What's up?"

A familiar voice was waiting for him on the end, and it brought him away from the distinctly pleasant and oblivious bliss he'd been enjoying for the last few days, forgetting the past, basking in the warmth of old friends, and sitting on the carpet with a CD in hand, grinning at Heero. He felt almost disappointed to be reminded of reality.

"Hi, Duo. It's Hilde."

"Oh," he let out, sitting up straight, his legs threaded through the center of the tire and his toes hovering over the floor. But as soon as the surprise wore off, his voice flooded with affection again. "Hey, Hil, girl. It's been a bit since you last called—but hey, no news is good news, right?"

She laughed, a sound he missed, a sound that had comforted him so years ago. Comforted him when a certain face had begun to haunt him. "Yes, in a way," she said amusedly, and he could tell she was probably shaking her head on the other end, miles and miles away in L-2. "How are you doing these days?"

Duo scoffed with a grin. "When am I _not_ okay? I'm a big boy—I ride the bus all by myself now."

Again, she laughed despite herself. "I meant, _where_ are you? Have you settled down anywhere yet, or are you still dragging yourself from city to city like your crazy old self?"

"Well, just got to Seattle this morning, probably only going to be staying for another day or so before I'll be somewhere else," Duo answered, smiling secretively. "I _bumped_ into someone interesting and he offered some lodgings, and he threw in a free tuxedo at that."

Hilde made a curious humming sound. "And just who would this generous fellow be?"

"Uh-uh! You've got three guess, but you'll piss yourself when you find out," Duo informed her mischievously. "Come on, Hil, where's the fun if I just blurt it out at you?"

"Well, in that case, I'll just settle for a little mystery, Duo."

"Man, what a load of fun _you _are today," the American teased. "I was hoping you'd soil yourself in surprise."

"Is it a good or bad surprise?"

Duo grinned to himself on the other line, though the corners of his lips were falsely turned up. "A little bit of both," he answered cryptically.

"Well, I trust that you can take care of yourself, but I'd better get to the point, Duo—these Earth Sphere calls going to kill me pretty soon," Hilde said quickly, with the sound of readjusting the receiver to her ear. "Do you remember what day it is today?"

"Sure, I do."

"Then you know what's coming up in a few days."

Duo blinked, his expression blank for a moment, then it filled with a mix of dread and fright. "Ah, _shit_, I totally forgot! Oh, god!"

"That's very sweet of you. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear that you totally spaced' again this year."

"Ah, man, Hil," the American groaned into his cell phone, slapping a hand over his forehead and rubbing at his temples, "I can't make it out there in time for him. I'm sorry—I really screwed it up again, didn't I."

"So, what is that that's keeping you there, huh? Can't come to his birthday party while you're too busy hitchhiking?"

"Something came up, Hilde," Duo answered, his tone less jovial, but she sighed good-naturedly as he apologized again, groaning again in exasperation at himself.

"It'll be all right. He's used to it. He's got so many presents this year, he probably won't even notice."

"Well, _mine_'s gonna blow all of the rest out of the water! _He's_ gonna wet himself when he sees it," Duo piped up, straightening up on the tire swing again, causing it to continue its slow, leisurely twirl over the cement.

Hilde paused on the other end of the line. He felt the knowing smile come slowly across her face. "So what is it, Duo?"

"I'm not telling you!" he drawled, though he knew that she knew that no such fantastic present had been purchased yet.

"He's into dump trucks and tractors now," Hilde informed him obligingly, still slyly smiling at him from an impossible distance away. "And tool sets."

"Ha! He's me through and through, ain't he?"

"If you mean loud and incoherent and inable to sit still for a moment's time, then yes," she said teasingly.

"Can I talk to him?"

"He's exhausted, Duo. He's been sleeping since lunch. He went out in the junk yard again with Howard this morning."

"Well, then give the little snot a big sloppy one for me, all right?"

Hilde laughed and he heard her smile coming through as she continued. "I definitely will."

"Thanks, Hil."

"Oh, and Duo?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitated. "You know you don't have to run and hide forever, like this. The key's still under the doormat, same address, same street." The tone in her voice was tender and cautious, something Duo was all too familiar with, and it twisted a nerve in him. "He'd love to have you back home again. He loves you. And Howard and I do, too."

"I know, Hil," he answered, his voice falsely smooth and unaffected. "Thanks. I'll give you a call, later, then?"

Before she replied, he heard a painful trace of a sigh. "Sure. Talk to you later."

"Ciao," Duo said in finality. His finger found the button on the smooth, metallic surface of his cell phone, and he clutched it in his hands, sitting in the tire swing for a few quiet minutes, staring distantly at the walls into a much further place, before he worked himself up to return to Heero, Trowa, and Quatre, with the burden of reality resting on his shoulders again.

* * *

Ooh, I just love ending chapters Just when I've revealed a little more of the painful past, you, the hapless reader, see those horrible three words : To be continued! But hopefully sooner than this one took... I always say that, and I always try to mean it. Enjoy the rest of your summer, everyone! 


	14. Come and Keep Your Comrade Warm

Chapter 14

"Come and Keep Your Comrade Warm"

It was almost a shame that St. Petersburg should be so beautiful and there would be no one to share it with, that the soft snow should fall without someone there beside him to catch the snowflakes on his tongue and marvel at the symphony of white drifting from the sky.

On the cold, Russian night, he laid on a narrow bed in clothes that had not been changed for days, that brought with them the faint aroma of bar smoke and loneliness into the rickety carton of a hotel room where he desperately could not find sleep. The window had frosted over many weeks ago, masked completely by Jack Frost's cruel and icy hand, so he could barely see the glow of the city lights. The room was in horrible neglect he assumed, judging from the emptied containers of vodka and vermouth, the battered and stained walls, the peeling paint, and half-rotten bed. The single, rickety lamp had not broken yet but was so wretchedly decrepit Heero had a suspicion the light bulb design would sit more comfortably in a museum.

Heero imparted a sigh through his chapping lips, sucked dry by the lack of warmth in the entire building. A truly Russian winter night lay just ahead for him, dark, cold, and seemingly without a dawn or spring at the distant end. The thought made his eyes darken and his face grow blank.

He forced himself not to think about it, but inevitably his memories of regret and loss were back and eager to pounce on his idle mind as he lay there. He pushed them away. It only hurt to touch some of them, and what was the need to do it again tonight? A single thought, a fraction of a bad memory would make him toss and turn, sleepless for days, and for the rest of his life they would be there whenever he needed to feel guilt or grief, but tonight, he just wanted to forget. Sleep and the oblivion it brought had been so elusive to him for the last year and as time went on it only crept further out of reach. Now his body as well as his mind had fallen victim and become horribly worn.

He brought his hand up in front of his face to squint at the final red and yellow capsule pinched carefully between his thumb and index finger.

"Last one," he told himself quietly, before he cupped it in his palm, and put his hand to his mouth.

Heero already felt his body sinking into the heavy comforter by the time he'd taken the final pill, and in a matter of minutes, he was sinking even further and further. Like he was slowly being swallowed by the musty carpet, by the ragged brick building, by the frozen Russian earth itself and into painless oblivion. That's how he recognized the sedatives were beginning to take effect, even as his mind and eyes remained awake and open. A fluttering sensation began in the pit of his stomach as he realized this, and he took in a sharp, deep breath to remedy it. Even as he forced himself not to think about it, there was one part in him that hesitated, fearful, desperate, as sleep began to descend.

It was also the part of him that called him a coward and a fool, told him how much his friends would be disappointed in him—it imagined how Wufei would turn a disdainful eye at his cowardice, how Quatre would shake his head and bite his lip in anguish, how Trowa would lower his gaze, and how loudly Duo would bark at him, heatedly throwing his hands into the air, expressing his severe aggravation with his "stupid fucking move" at the top of his voice.

The butterflies in his stomach then faded away, only replaced by a stronger pain that struck without mercy in the heart of him.

Unbelievably drowsy, heavy, and ultimately cold in the wintry air, Heero then twisted his neck to look at the photograph propped up on the bedside table, even though his veins felt like they were filling with ice cold molten lead. Eyes rimmed red, holding back a sniffling sound and even a little bit of panic at how rapidly and how strongly the sedatives were working, Heero reached out his arm toward the picture, his rapidly weakening fingers curling beyond his control as he tried to take it. He brushed the frame but his body crumbled beneath him and his arm fell to the bed, motionless and as heavy as stone when he tried to lift it again.

But whatever panic now sprung to life in him, unchecked, it was forgotten. Heero's world now began to blur, as well as gently suck him down into the blankets, and his vision was darkening, spinning, turning traitorous. His lips opened to utter something that came out weak and garbled. His jaw hung lifelessly as his eyelids grew almost violently heavy, the whites of his eyes showing as the rolled back, fraction by fraction, until his head dropped onto the bedspread, barely conscious. His body fought bravely against the powerful sedative and gave his mind one last moment of clarity.

_I never did end up killing him, like he said I was meant to._

He was afraid, but he had no choice in the matter now. He'd already done it, and sleep, which had daunted him from a harrowing distance, was sitting calmly at the side of the bed, tenderly holding the photograph he had been so desperately reaching for, desiring to see it one last time.

No, it wasn't sleep sitting beside him, Heero somehow recognized, even as his body was falling victim to an intense darkness. Rather, it was Death in his familiar black attire, his hair seeming to glow in the dim light, and his hand silently tracing over the glass, over an image of himself. He was simply sitting on the edge of Howard's ocean repair ship, his arms crossed lazily over the lowest railing, gazing up at the camera, caught off-guard but peaceful and just about to crack a sheepish smile for the lens. Heero had found it on Peacemillion, so many eons ago, so far from this ratty Russian hotel room, and taken it with him. He remembered he had kept it in the thin pocket his flight suit, even while falling through the atmosphere, outrunning a two-megaton meteor. It had rested there, above his heart throughout heated battle and straining fighting, for so long that the corners had become worn and crinkled. But the picture was still flawless and still priceless to him.

Death turned his head and smiled gently at him, sitting, glowing softly and doused in a gentle silvery wash, just inches away. _Sorry, buddy,_ he said wordlessly, _but I'm not ready to come and get you yet. You'll just have to wait._

He was still holding the picture when Heero's eyes finally closed, his body slackened, and remained motionless, where his body would be found on the morning of the 19th of February, 200 AC, with six empty bottles of sleeping pills sitting beside a framed photograph on the bedside table.

* * *

Five years later, Heero woke up in the middle of another cold, snowy night, from a sleep that was neither pleasant nor restful. He'd dreamt it again, a disturbingly lucid memory of what he had believed was his last restless night, and again with Duo sitting at the edge of his bed, tenderly holding the picture frame and smiling back at him. It came back to him in horrible detail—the very stinging smell of vodka soaked into the carpet below, the exact color of the frost on the window, and the exact angle of the photograph on the side table as he had begun to sink into oblivion, reaching for it.

In the darkness of his own room, he sat up in a cluttered mess of blankets hanging off the bed and pressed a hand heavily to his face with a groan. His bare toes hung just above the floor as he sat over the edge, in an eerily similar way to the specter in his memory, and stared over at the clock perched on the side table, cruelly displaying the hour in its unfeeling red numbers. Heero frowned at it as his eyes began to adjust to the shadows engulfing the entire house—it seemed dark, even for the midnight hour. The Japanese man let out another tired groan and turned his head to glance out the window, expecting to see the gentle blue glow radiating off the snow banks in the dead of night, but even that was less vibrant than before. Too tired to think for a moment, he simply dug the heel of his palm into his face, trying to rub out whatever was ailing him. He felt a familiar unrest and exhaustion coming over him and swore to himself.

He hated these kinds of nights. Insomnia could drive more sane men mad than a fickle woman ever could was his firm belief, and it was coming from experience. He should have never have sat up. Even though it wouldn't have been pleasant, he should have lain there and remitted himself to sleep, he knew in his sleepless bones, even if it meant reliving his night in St. Petersburg again in stunning color and sensation.

"Damn," he breathed, hunching tiredly, feeling animated by the restless exhaustion of sleeplessness again. He seriously considered, as he sat there, glaring unhappily at the time, of drawing the curtains around his bed and just lying there until the night took him, sooner or later, but he knew it would be futile. He'd spent enough time lying motionless and horribly aware under the covers to know the drill. Heero dragged a hand through his hair, scratching just above his ear and further disheveling his dark mop, as if it would help ease his indecision.

It had been a few hours since Quatre had fallen asleep on Trowa's lap at the beginning of "Train in Vain", and therefore set off a chain reaction of sorts, sending each party to their respective corners of the house. Heero remembered wondering how it was possible to doze off to the loud and energetic voice of Duo's that carried long into the late hours, how he could have slept through Duo crowing victoriously as he had just beaten Heero in another hand of cards, sitting on one side of the coffee table with a straight and a brilliant grin while Heero sat on the other, trying to convince him that he'd illegally procured one of his winning cards. The American had then mock-patted himself down and threw his palms into the air, drawling at him, "Ha! Innocent till proven guilty, Sergeant, sir!"

Trowa had politely woken up the sleeping pilot, who's head had fallen against his shoulder, and announced that he was gonna head to bed. And as soon as Quatre had gotten to his feet and followed, Duo had announced himself that he would finish one more game before hitting the sack himself. Heero found something in his stomach twisting as he recalled the strange hurried tone in his speech, the overly wide grin, and the anxious movements of his fingers as he constantly rearranged his hand or drummed them on the table once it had been only the two of them. Twice had his eyes quickly veered away from his when he'd glanced up and discovered him already looking at him, the color changing in his stare. Just thinking about it refilled Heero with the same peculiar pang he'd felt so acutely then, wondering why Duo had acted so nervously around him.

It was something that tailed him silently as he drifted out of his room, driven by insomnia to crawl barefoot out of his bed and quietly descend the stairs, the entire house faintly blue and seemingly nothing but shadows upon shadows. It was by habit that he should wander into the darkened kitchen, faintly tinged blue and white from the mounds of snow and the distant city lights. What was unusual about this particular sleepless night was the fact he had company. Heero stopped, ghostly silent, in the archway and looked wordlessly upon Death, sitting, equally sleepless, at the kitchen table, bathed in blue and silver. He felt his breath gather up in his throat, caught behind something indescribable, and stared at Duo for more than a moment before he could recognize him for the living being he was, instead of the surreal image on in a musty hotel room haunting him. For a soundless moment, he remained unnoticed and he swept his eyes over him, surprised to see him there.

Backlit by the hazy jewels of light of the sleeping city, Duo's profile was distinct and familiar, though different—his head held much lower than Heero was sure he'd ever seen, gazing endlessly into a half-emptied mug of coffee as if it had entranced him, as if the secret of life was reflected on that dark surface. Though it seemed the porcelain cup had long gone cold with the coffee, his hands were wrapped tightly around it. Hunched at the table, dim blue light gleaming on the polish, with only a chilled cup of coffee and his thoughts to occupy him, he silently fingered the rim of the porcelain, mind miles away from body. Heero felt his mouth betray an amused twitch at Duo's state, oblivious to everything and anything for a moment. He wondered what he was thinking so profoundly about in a pair of boxer shorts and plain T-shirt, complete with mismatched socks without an ounce of elastic, sitting crookedly in the chair. Heero remained motionless as he traced his gaze down his long, disheveled braid of hair and Duo's reverie faded immediately, as if it his eyes were literal, electric shivers trickling down his spine.

The American turned his face toward Heero, heart-shaped and pale and quickly shifting as he recognized he was not alone anymore. His mouth did not automatically twist into a bright, even sly display of a grin as Heero found he had grown accustomed to. His face was strangely blank for a moment as he found his voice, though his eyes still held the nervous restlessness from only hours before, undimmed and even, if it was possible, intensified. "Heero," he said quietly, finally splitting open a sheepish grin. "You nearly scared the hell out of me. I thought you were a ghost." A soft chuckle broke the silence further as Duo consciously straightened up, the red that tinged his cheekbones deceptively obscured under the cover of the night.

Heero quietly smiled back at him, too tired to do much more than pull one corner of his lips as greeting, and the responding one was suspiciously wide and toothy.

"Can't sleep either?"

"Nope," Heero answered with a shake of his disheveled mop of hair, moving out of the archway to the cupboards, out of which he extracted a glass. The tap hiss interrupted the quiet as he filled it with cold water, his back to Duo at the table. A single red orb of light interrupted the monopoly of blue light, glowing over an emptied batch of coffee.

"Does that work?" Duo asked with a softened smile. Heero had turned around, holding a clear glass of water, unable to hide the marks of his insomnia behind the ragged bangs covering his forehead, just brushing over his deep Prussian eyes. It was almost enough to take his attention away from the fact that he wore a loose-fitting pair of sweatpants and no more than that besides a smile. The thought alone made every nerve ending stand at attention, making him nearly painfully aware of every move, every tilt of the head, every misplaced glance and making it excruciating to maintain a certain expression on his face throughout.

Heero glanced at what he held bemusedly and then sat down opposite Duo at the table. "If it did, I don't think that either of us would be here."

The American felt relieved that he didn't feel the pit of his stomach drop when he looked up to meet his eye. If there ever had been one image he would have never predicted laying his eyes on, it would be this one, with Heero's hair ruffled, a gentle, uninhibited smile, looking as vulnerable as Duo supposed he ever could be—he was younger than the Heero he'd seen stiffly sitting at a laptop, determinedly blocking out his bored narrative. And it was so Heero-ish of him to only look younger and younger as time marched cruelly on.

"Unfair," Duo whispered, smirking against the rim of the coffee mug as he tossed back the last few precious drops of caffeine.

Heero looked at him, his disheveled hair and the tilt of his head reminding Duo of the little brown dog who ran rampant about the house in the daylight. Apparently his hearing was as razor sharp as ever—did he _ever_ age, like normal people? Before the puzzled man could open his mouth and inquire as to what was so unfair, Duo held the empty coffee mug toward him, explaining it. "I'm out," he said and tiredly tried to smile.

"You know," Heero told him, while offhandedly spinning the water around in his glass, "this is not the most appropriate time for black coffee, Duo."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he drawled in return, "but it had my name on it. I couldn't help it. Better than just sitting around in the dark, moping."

"It was calling to you from the cupboard, I assume?"

"No, it really had my name on it!" Duo defended, quickly standing up from his chair to produce it from the cupboard over the emptied coffeemaker, throwing it open. Managing to get every ounce of dramatic effect out of his quiet tone, he snatched up a blue metal jar of coffee. "See!" He stalked over to where the Japanese pilot was sitting and jabbed his finger defiantly at the white text. "Maxwell House!"

Heero smiled. "I was wondering when you'd find that," he said, simply gazing fondly at it as he lifted the glass to lips again to take a drink.

"Where the hell'd you get something like this?" Duo muttered out loud as he circled around to his chair again, still staring incredulously at it. "It's weird—I've never even heard of this stuff before."

"It's an pre-colony brand," the Japanese man explained quietly. It was rather amusing to simply watch his comrade respond to the image of his own name printed on a can of coffee, gawking at it as if he were a man looking at his own reflection for the first time and staring intently as if it possessed some precious secret. "They only sell it in Seattle anymore. And even then it's rather rare to find any around. It's pretty good, actually."

"Of course it is. It's got _my _name on it, dunn't?" The American busied himself then, to offset the quiet tone of voice he took, with idly ringing a fingertip around the porcelain rim of his empty cup. "You know, when I found it, I thought you'd made it yourself just to make fun of me or something."

Heero looked across to him through the blue-silver haze of the wintry night, pinning an expression of disbelief on him. A corner of his mouth smirked despite himself. "When have you ever known me to make fun of you, Duo?"

Duo's eyes flashed up to his. "Oh, don't give me that," he scoffed with a sly and wicked grin usurping his entire face. "Don't play _innocent_ with _me_, pal. You take every chance you get to poke fun at me, but you do it in a much more subversive way, that's all. With your smooth talk, ten-dollar words, and that incorrigible little smirk of yours—ha, you're doing it right now! You couldn't fool me to save your life, Heero. You're not as pure and straight-laced as everybody likes to make you out, Mr. I-Save-the-World-in-My-Spare-Time." He folded his arms onto the polished table, hunching forward to fix a wickedly shrewd smirk on him in return while Heero only smiled back, blue eyes smugly blue. "Don't deny it. You're just as bad as _me_ sometimes."

After the words had left the air, restoring the sleepy, but vibrant and humming silence of night, Heero considered this for a moment, never breaking his gaze from Duo's while the corner of his mouth curled further and further, betraying him more and more. Time stretched out comfortably between them, effortlessly maintained, each painted in soft blue, radiating off the silvery white drifts piled outside. Heero slowly turned the half-emptied glass with his finger tips, eyes trained on the American's patient sly smirk, and let his own smile get the best of him, until he was grinning in back at Duo, showing, without words, just how right he was with his own softer, more subtle mischievous expression. It was something Duo had never seen before, but somehow expected from him and felt awfully familiar with.

"I don't think so," he breathed and shrugged finally, breaking off their silent showdown as he lifted the glass to his mouth, barely able to pull the corners of his mouth back to do so.

Duo snorted at him. "Right," he drawled. He stood up to fix himself another brew of his own coffee, noting to himself the angle of the clock hands slowly inching its way around.

Somewhere nearing the devil's hour, after a long, mutual bout of insomnia, still unvisited by the comforting urge to sleep, Duo brought up the tender topic of stolen childhood, with him bemoaning the injustice they had suffered—fighting a war of losing battles while they should have been getting summer jobs, neglecting homework, and generally soaking up the short-lived light of their youth. Not in cramped, blistering cockpits, being thrashed by an army of mobile dolls, not unwillingly thrown in to the pits of hell on Earth. Duo, however, didn't have to iterate that fact. They both knew the reality of it all too well, and the feeling was a mutual one. Morosely letting his chin rest on his folded arms, the Deathscythe pilot let another long sigh out between his lips, staring into the silver cast on the tabletop. Heero's eyes rested on his face though, absently tracing over the softest hints of emotion as they passed through his eyes, the angle of his lips, the carefully rhythmic lilt of his voice.

"I can't believe how old we've become," he muttered. Heero was astonished by the softness of his voice, absent of any flippant drawl. "I never thought I'd live past my sixteenth birthday, let alone to the ripe old age of twenty-five. It's just so mind-blowing to think we actually survived something like that when we were just kids. We were scraggly little runts, and we survived where thousands of grown men failed and were killed and died quick, painless deaths, or slow and painfully. Unbelievable, y'know."

The Wing pilot silent observed this, his lips setting tighter together as he was inevitably flooded again by the memories of war, spurred by Duo's words. But this time, they were not the painful ones that plagued him—they were of the American hunched, pained and weak, against the a cold cell wall, squinting into the light towards him, undeniably afraid for his life for a moment, believing he would actually end it, and then his arm lowering and his expression gladdening. Of Duo, at St. Gabriel's, standing by a basketball hoop and awaiting him, a basketball held on his hip with one arm. Of Trowa and Duo deliberating over a black and white chessboard between missions, the American beside him, slyly moving his knight to vanquish an opposing pawn, knocking it clean off the board.

"I mean, what were our chances of survival back then? Less than zero, but all of us are still here. Growing old," Duo murmured nostalgically, his voice becoming thicker and thicker with a nameless tone which made a part of Heero's chest swell sadly as he sat reverently listening. "Trowa and Quatre are already planning the rest of their lives together, Wufei, of all people, has a little girl who means the world to him, and you're getting married in less than a month."

Duo closed his eyes, drawing his brows tightly together, tightly controlling his voice as he continued on a few moments later. Heero felt his heart breaking slowly as he watched the deep violet of Duo's eyes changing. "And we still have peace. The peace _we_ fought for. I mean, I can't even get my head around any of it, and it's been ten years. A decade. An entire decade. Ten times how long I expected to be around. It went in a blink of an eye, but it was an eternity since Mariemaia, since Peacemillion, since I shot you out."

He then nudged his mouth against his folded arms, his eyelids drifting lower as he stared off into memory, looking smaller than he had ever been before. His expression was thoroughly blank as he murmured, more to himself than consciously, "And me, I'm stuck in time. I don't move forward or get better or wiser, just old and wrinkled. I really wish I knew how you guys do it." Finally, he closed his eyes again, and sighed. Where Heero expected at least a sardonic smirk, there was nothing but a lifeless voice. "But then again, it's probably just me being a coward."

Heero could find nothing to say to that. Transfixed, he watched Duo's eyes slowly blink once, twice, then again, before the silence again was lifted, but not with any of his usual enthusiasm, morbid or otherwise.

He knew Duo felt him staring, but he couldn't help it, and it was even more impossible to tear his eyes away when he spoke up again to ask, "Heero, do you think if our lives had been different, would we all be together, like we are? You know, Quatre and Trowa and Wufei and you and me? Would we even know each other?" That's when his violet eyes flickered up, making the Wing pilot's heart pound once forcibly against his ribs, and seemed to look straight into him, almost fearful of what he would find. "Would things be different? Would have you and I even become friends?"

Heero couldn't bring himself to answer anything but, "Yes," to Duo as he sat there, hunched, tired, and unable to conceal his anxiety with a grin, and it still hurt to do so, knowing he couldn't say all of what he felt and make Duo understand it.

He watched his face momentarily darken, sadden under his eyes, despite it, and witnessed a sudden change as Duo abruptly concealed it. Before Heero could even realize what had happened, his expression had shrewdly stretched into a lazy, crooked smirk and he leaned back in his chair. His jaws opened in a monstrous yawn, stretching his arms behind him sleepily. Heero simply stared as he sunk back into the chair, smacking his lips and reaching up to casually scratch his head, unconvinced.

"'Bout time," he said to himself, his mouth again splitting in yawn as he stood. "Think I'll be hitting the sack now, Heero. You should too. Nobody's gonna wanna deal with a grumpy you, bud," he joked casually, leaving the chair sitting crookedly as he left it to stand up. He extended his arms out before him and wove his fingers together, pressing his palms outward in his usual, fluid way so that his knuckles cracked and he put his hands on his hips.

"It'll feel good to finally sleep again," Duo muttered to himself before he prepared himself to turn and bid Heero goodnight, turning instead to find himself standing only a foot away from Heero. He felt himself inevitably let his mask slip, letting through something he couldn't decipher by Heero's reaction, who was looking at him in the oddest way. The most disconcerting way, with those endless baby blues of his and just the slightest furrow of brow from concern sending his heart skyrocketing up into the back of his mouth, hampering his breathing.

It prevented him from asking what was wrong, though he wouldn't have been able to form the words, anyway. Heero looked straight across into his eyes and Duo felt horribly uneasy about it. All rational thought had left the room for him as soon as he realized how close he had been, without making so much as a noise. He looked distressed almost, his brow furrowing further, and he said, "It doesn't matter what didn't happen, Duo. We are friends, and we're not dead. And you're not a coward."

"Yeah, I am," he murmured back, smiling nervously and sadly at the same. He still couldn't breathe, but he still felt horrible to realize where he was—in Heero's home, just weeks before he was engaged to be married to someone else, staring into his eyes. When he didn't respond immediately other than to look at him with that agonizing puppy dog stare, Duo shifted to turn away, unable to stand the torture of being that close, and felt himself being pulled back.

Heero had put his arms around Duo's shoulders and pulled him against his chest in a hug abruptly, silently, stunning the poor American. He didn't move an inch after that, grounded and determinedly holding him there, his head slightly bowed and the sound of his breath flowing past Duo's ear as they stood there. He was paralyzed, as far as he knew, realizing just how warm Heero was, the euphoric sensation of his arms squeezing around him protectively, even—the first time they'd ever hugged, the first time they'd ever really touched. That's when Duo realized the sudden ache in his chest was his lungs, burning for breath, to supply to his frozen body.

He pulled away as suddenly as Heero had pulled him toward him, though he wanted nothing more in all his miserable life than to just stand there. But he just couldn't deal with that, with Heero's warm body or disheveled hair brushing the side of his face, of his arms holding him. It would kill him. Duo couldn't think or see straight, and, blind as bat, stepped away, filled with fire and grief. He chuckled nervously, unable to hold his face from becoming a horrible charade of a smile. He quickly took another step, putting space between him and the one thing he could never really have, and said with an overly-wide smile, "Thanks, Ro, but I really gotta go get some rest, kay? See ya in the morning?"

Heero watched him silently, looking almost hurt by Duo's withdrawal. But it subsided, whatever shined through, and he nodded numbly. "Sure. So do I," he muttered softly, turning his gaze away. "Goodnight, then."

"Yeah, goodnight," Duo responded too quickly, and as soon as the parting words had been exchanged, was stalking back toward his bedroom through the blue myriad of shadows, disappearing like a hazy memory, and leaving Heero standing there, in the kitchen, staring into the blue shadows before he, too, left for the dubious comfort of a lonely bed.

* * *

A/N: Though it's not much of an excuse, A.P. classes and such have slowed down the posting of his chapter, as well as me working on my Gwyaoi entry. I finished aformentioned story, luckily, but A.P. classes are another matter entirely and continue the entire year, unfortunately. But don't worry. Finishing this story is still my first priority, and I won't stop till I get it done (or I die, which ever comes first, I guess. ;) 


	15. Marguerite des Près

Chapter 15

"Marguerite des Près"

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Duo muttered to the rhythm of his heel of his palm hitting his forehead. "I'm so damn stupid."

He gritted his teeth furiously as he repeated the phrase over and over into the chilled air of his room. A tight, obnoxious knot lay just over his heart as he was sentenced to repeatedly relive those moments in the kitchen in his mind, lying in the dark, once again cruelly neglected by the sandman. He lay on the bed and continually turned over, sleepless on one side, then rolled onto the other to realize it did nothing to remedy the situation. And all the while, he would throw in a few more mutters of "Stupid, stupid!" for good measure as he relived Heero's puppyish and tormenting face glowing blue and staring at him. He felt a physical jolt when he felt Heero pulling him close again, and promptly flopped over on the bed to forcibly ban it from his sleepless thoughts. Despite his best efforts, he only managed in flouncing and squirming about like some graceless fish while fresh memory tormented him. By the time he had exhausted himself, he had succeeded in repressing not a single memory, probably only making it worse—circling those heart-wrenching images in his brain with a thick black marker.

"Goddamnit, this sucks," came the final growl of complaint as Duo lay still on the bed, grimacing up at the ceiling, the blankets scattered around the bed. His low voice, doused in pained sarcasm, came back to him off the lonely walls, unanswered.

"This really does suck. I should have never let him do that. Can't get it out of my head now, for Christ's sake" He blew a bang out of his eye with a sharp puff of air. "God, fuck this! I should just quit this whole secretly-wanting-the-one-thing-I'll-never-have thing, it's ridiculous. Definitely not doing any good for my beauty sleep, either, all this being the bridesmaid, but never the bride." He scoffed cruelly at himself and let his hand fall over his face, dragging his fingers across it.

For good measure, he ground the heel of his palm into his eye, desperately trying to scratch the horrible itch in his brain that held him prisoner to a twisted cinema, and moved his pursed lips to let out a groan of a sigh. He felt himself start to sink back into the pillow and the mattress in exhaustion. Sucked down into the night. The continual and hellish rerun of Heero continued in mental matinee even as Duo forced himself to think of other things, perpetually painting his mind in blue light and bottomless blue eyes. It flickered faithfully and silently, like a movie being played in another room, creeping harmlessly through a crack in the door. And there Duo stood in the corridor, gazing raptly at that door, wishing he had the raw guts to just throw it open. He would still be standing there, watching it pitifully when the sandman begrudgingly granted him his rest and he fell into dreams lying, half-covered, hair still messily braided and trailing off the side of the mattress. At the same time, Heero would standing at his own door, though he lay sleepless through out the night.

* * *

Trowa bemusedly watched his dreams again pass before him, first scattered images, colors, and feelings haphazardly meshed together. A hand, the corner of Quatre's mouth, an old pair of mismatched shoes, a mother ewe nudging her sleeping lamb—it continued until fading into black, where he suddenly found himself again reliving the dream of the night before, watching Heero's motionless face trained on an object Trowa couldn't see. His eyes darkened lifelessly, tainting his expression similarly as an eternity stretched on in silent dream. And then he was gone, the blackness of his pupils identical to that of the piano where Quatre sat once again, one hand gently stroking the keys.

Aware of himself in this dream, Trowa glanced silently around the room. It was painted a sublime blue and draped in shadow, turning the spectral image of his fiancé into something ghostly and ethereal. Barefooted, Quatre speechlessly sat at the bench, unaware of anything around him beside the sensation of the cool keys against his fingertips as he tapped out a slow, melancholy melody on the highest, gentlest notes, whispering into the night in his dream. His long fingers slowly journeyed from one chalky, ivory note from another in graceful arcs. And without notice, Quatre wordlessly turned his head, sad music silenced, his fingers resting hesitantly. Through the shadow his eyes seemed to pierce, following something just out of Trowa's sight, through the corporal walls painted in shadow.

"Trowa?" a sleepy voice interrupted him, accompanied by a shifting of fabric and a tired, soft noise as a body sat up cautiously beside him, shaking him from his dream. "What's the matter?"

The walls were real—the shadows cloaking them were real, as was the gentle sound of something in the distance just beneath Quatre's concerned voice beside him. Trowa was sitting up in the music room in the night, but the spectral figure at the piano was no more. The polished keys slept peacefully and undisturbed. The blue enchantment of moonlight poured through the window, coloring Quatre's face as he turned to look at him, blinking the dream away. "Is something wrong?" he asked in a groggy voice, moving an arm from around his waist to touch the back of his neck, the side of his face. "Why did you sit up like that?"

Trowa squinted at him as if he were trying to see him clearly. "I don't know," he muttered in a gravelly voice as well, feeling suddenly constricted of speech. "It must have just been a dream. I barely remember it."

"You're all right, though?" Quatre asked, though he felt the answer himself, a churning uncertainty, an awareness turning in the pit of his stomach.

Without another word, he turned his head, mimicking the spectral Arabian of his dream, the last clear image resonating in his brain and found himself staring at the moon-painted corridor that led to the rest of the sleeping house. But he felt otherwise, and in his head, he still heard wisps of that slow melody. "Do you hear something?" he asked in a hush, feeling Quatre's disheveled hair on his neck as he turned as well, gazing into the blue.

And then there it was. The sound of the door shutting gently. It was distant and muffled, but it was distinguishable to the both of them, and they shared a look as distinguishable pattern of Heero's gait—a soft but measured, steady step without wandering—tracing its way from the front door, across the den, and unmistakably toward the door connecting to the garage. Trowa heard a gentle, wooden clinking of firewood as the silent ghost passed the music room corridor, and found himself looking again at Quatre's expressive blue-green eyes, which held no definite answers, only a growing pool of concern.

* * *

The next morning, long before Duo would ever dare think of stirring from his bed, Heero sat at the kitchen table and together the two maintained a terribly long staring match while Quatre and Trowa scrounged up breakfast, inevitably finding ways to flirt between the flipping of the eggs and buttering of the toast. His hair was still damp from showering, clumped on his head in great, uncombed black clumps. Eyes sunken, mouth pursed tiredly, he more closely resembled death warmed over than he did his usual, vigilant self. He hadn't suffered a sleepless night like that for some time and coping with deprivation was not like riding a bike—it was painfully new and difficult every time it struck. If it had been anyone other than Heero Yuy, Quatre was sure that he would have simply collapsed on the kitchen table in a near-vegetable state.

The smell of burnt firewood was unmistakable on Heero, undiluted by his thorough morning shower. And every time that Quatre passed by that morning, that scent leapt to the front of his mind, reminding him of just what had transpired the night before, when he had been stalking around the house in the middle of the night, sneaking off to the devil's lair. The garage room did tend to get colder than the rest of the house at night.

There had been the smell of coffee lingering in the kitchen as well when he and Trowa had arrived, finding Heero there, already sitting silently at the table and gazing out into the morning light. Quatre just had a sense that something had happened there, and, with a few well-timed looks and faint signals, he ascertained Trowa noticed it, too. It was a rather large clue, though, that Heero had not left that spot, instead choosing to gaze at the chair sitting crookedly opposite him as if it held some message essential to his survival and simply would not divulge any it to him in anything above a gentle whisper. He looked ragged trying to decipher it, and Quatre only had the heart to inquire to what he wanted to eat, not to ask the question that had been weighing on him so heavily ever since he had stood at the frostbitten window with his fiancé, watching Heero and Duo fighting in the snow.

The answer to the unspeakable question became even more seemingly distant after Heero had silently chewed his way through breakfast and then had stood up, pushing his chair so the legs screeched on the floor, shouting through the quiet tension in the air. Quatre and Trowa, both sitting at the table (though not daring to occupy the one opposite him, for fear he might startle awake from some extended sleepwalk if he broke eye contact) jerked their heads up to look at him.

Quatre gulped hard to get the mouthful of toast down quickly enough to ask, "Something wrong, Heero?"

"I'm gonna go into town for something," he announced, running a hand unhappily through his damp mop. "Need anything?" he asked spiritlessly, instead sounding as if he were addressing a brick wall.

When Quatre and Trowa both silently shook their heads, too surprised and morbidly curious to speak in his presence, he simply nodded an affirmative and turned to leave the kitchen. Numskull happily trotted at his heels as far as the doorway arch, following in anticipation and hope of some attention lavished on him, but Heero disappeared around the corner and his departure was punctuated by the front door shutting unobtrusively. The disappointed dog tilted his head curiously at this and remained watching the closed door for a few minutes more, hoping he'd turn around and come back and scratch his belly. Those left behind at the kitchen table exchanged a look with each other, but the remainder of the their peaceful breakfast was interrupted by Numskull's eager barking at the window as a car that was not Heero's pulled up through the slush.

* * *

The young cashier lifted his head from his remedy for the slow business that morning and casually put the magazine on the stool after he had stood up to lay eyes on the customer walking through the door. The bells gradually jangled to a halt, while the dark-haired man frowned to himself and brushed out the snowflakes in his hair, standing in a pair of slush-soaked shoes.

Without a friendly word, as was the treatment Heero Yuy seemed to be affording the world this morning and reasonably so, he seemed to scent the air as if beginning a sacred hunt. And the air rushing into his lungs was soaked with the mingling aromas of hundreds of flowers, each freshly delivered just that morning to Ray's Flora from distant and far warmer places. For a moment, his mind was set with purpose and characteristic determination, but it soon floundered when the realization hit him of where his feet had automatically taken him. The image of warmly lit blossoms screaming with color and overpoweringly sweet-smelling air—the _feminism_ of it all—surrounding him suddenly sucked the boldness from him. An idea sparked by the sad look on Duo's face had led him here, of all places?

Heero was startled from his reverie, standing in an aisle of bewilderingly beautiful lilacs blending with the ardent color of roses with delicate forget-me-nots and cheerful tulips, when the cashier appeared at the end of the aisle, looking at him cautiously down the fragrant, overflowing flowered lane. After a moment of consideration, the tall, lanky kid's face lit up in recognition and he smiled shyly from underneath his curly mop of hair. "Hey, Officer Yuy," he greeted. "It's been a long time since I seen you in here."

Gray eyes. April's kid, Heero recalled quickly, turning a corner of his mouth as the friendliest greeting he could concoct on negative hours sleep. He'd been working there for years, now. Ever since he'd moved to Seattle. "Nice to see you again, Greg," he spoke up, his hand shoved nervously in his pockets.

"Looking for something in particular?" the kid asked as he shuffled up beside Heero with a long-legged gait, making the poor Gundam pilot feel rather short next to him. His eyes barely skimmed shoulder level. "Another bouquet for Relena, I suppose? You used to be in here every week when you first came. Can't believe she didn't get tired of flowers after that first year you came here."

"Yeah," Heero grunted, turning to stare at the dizzying assortment of color. "Me neither."

"Need help finding something?"

Heero glanced at him again, his lips pinching unhappily. Did he really give off the frustration he felt so visibly? Or was he just becoming that much easier to read to the average civilian eye, not just the cunning and penetrating violet ones of Duo Maxwell? And speaking of which, he could just imagine the healthy laugh he would have appreciated from the sight of an old war pilot standing, perplexed, in a utopia of red and lavender and white flowers. Again confronted by the intimidating look of hundreds of blossoms bunched before his eyes, Heero glanced up and down the aisle.

"I guess so," he said aimlessly, frowning. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

"Are you buying something for Relena?" Greg asked, peering over the bountiful rows.

"No," Heero said quickly, feeling an odd feeling knotting in his stomach.

The young man raised his eyebrows to himself, as the Japanese man was reaching out to touch a flower, looking no less confounded. "Someone else?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah, someone else."

"Someone _not _your fiancée?" Greg glanced around nervously when Heero nodded silently. "Someone special to you, though, right? Not like an acquaintance or anything?" he asked, cautiously wording himself as he tried to clarify the situation a little more—the idea forming in his head was hazy but he understood what it meant.

"No, no—definitely more than an acquaintance," Heero answered. Unfortunately, Greg did not seem to notice just how wearied the customer was (of course not able to know he was running on naught but a measly ounce of sleep) and took the answer with a reddening complexion. That just didn't seem like the Mr. Yuy he knew, the dedicated worker his mother had described to him after long workdays, but it wasn't his business to pry if he wanted to give a bouquet of flowers to someone not his intended wife. It rattled him a little, though.

"Well, um," he began, doing his best to be diplomatic about the whole thing, "you could start looking by definition—you know, all these flowers mean a different thing. For example, uh—take this purple lilac here—"

Greg began, picking up a small bundle of flowers, wrapped together with a band and a long, sunny yellow bow and flipped the card attached to squint at the flowery print. "Purple lilacs are symbols of budding love," he read, then busily began picking through the other nearby flowers, hoping to spark Heero into buying one or another with an exact message. "Black mulberry: devotion; pink camellias: longing; the jonquil: "Love me;" uh—and the tulip, that's a declaration of love—"

Heero suddenly pulled himself from the image of Duo smiling sadly at him to realize, with a hot flush in his face, just what was spilling out of Greg's mouth as he busily listed off another three or four flowers of ardent love. He stiffened up, as the cashier began pointing out particular shades of roses and which worked best together to serenade with, and found his mouth unable to move for a moment. Then it flew into action, feeling more self-conscious than he had for a long, long time.

"Oh no, no," he corrected, fighting his own betraying expression. "It's not for a woman!"

Greg looked semi-relieved to hear that, though he immediately apologized. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Yuy. I just thought from the way you—well, I just assumed that it would be for a woman, because you were already standing in the Love and Affection' aisle, as we call it. So, it's really not for a special person or anything?"

"No, he's very important to me—" he immediately defended, but trailed off, ailed by a horrible turning of knots in his stomach as he tried to continue. It was right, the words were right, but the rest of them were overshadowed by something very unsettling in his mind before they formed, making his throat constrict and turn dry. He shifted gears as he felt heat returning to his face. "Well, do you have anything beside flowers? Just a cheer-me-up present or something?"

"Oh, sure," Greg said brightly, relieved he was not selling flowers to an adulterer, "we've got a ton of chocolates, too. I think that would be all right to give to a guy, don't you?"

Walking down the snow-crusted sidewalk a few minutes later with an unadorned white box of chocolate cherries, almonds, and every imaginable combination of sweets and chocolate hidden somewhere inside, Heero hadn't left the odd sensation in the flower shop. It trailed him faithfully to his car, where it only seemed to hover and intensify the longer he stood still—the more chance he had to stop and think about what he'd just done. So, he did the only thing he could in the face of such a peculiar anxiety, he laughed at it. Chuckled at himself if he were barking mad, in much the way Duo had done so many times, snicker at his own foolishness, the foolishness of humanity itself. Even the few odd looks he received as he passed, laughing to himself, helped vanquish the butterflies in his stomach. But it didn't erase the feeling completely.

He stopped at the curb and gazed silently down at the box before climbing into the car. "He can't get mad if I eat just one," he conjectured as he lifted the lid and snuck a chocolate truffle into his mouth before fishing the keys out of his pocket.

Approaching the frosted gates some time later, Heero did not suspect anything out of the ordinary. Even as the hill gently rose and the dark pines parted to display the humble face of his home for the last years, he did not think to pay attention to the pair of car tracks that were not his own, or the other car sitting and collecting gently falling snowflakes off to the side. Insight had left him, instead hazed over by anxiety as he walked up to his own doorstep and stepped into the warmth of his own foyer, and he could barely see the floor beneath his feet as he made his way to the den while imagining the way Duo's mouth would turn when he presented him a box of chocolates. Anything to rid him of that terrible, sad image burned into his consciousness since last night—

"There you are, Heero," a voice greeted him happily as he nearly ran into the warm body standing in front of him, obscured by Duo's face in his mind, barely able to catch his feet before he toppled it over. The voice let off a soft, feminine laugh and two hands were on his shoulders, steadying itself.

"Careful, now," came the affectionate words just as he felt a familiar pair of lips greet him on the cheek. "Where were you going in such a hurry?"

Heero had not greeted Relena in return, his fiancée with an affectionate arm around his waist, because he was looking at Duo sitting in the same ruffled shirt and mismatched socks of the previous night on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest and painting on a bemused face as he watched Heero nearly topple his wife-to-be over in a mysterious rush. He had to tear his eyes away, because he felt Relena's eyes on him, expecting an answer. He didn't realize he had been staring silently for the last few moments at Duo, generally bewildered.

"Uh," he managed out without a stumble of voice, "just coming home. What are you—"

"Are these for me?" she suddenly asked, her face lighting up like a candle as she realized what Heero held in his hand. "Chocolates? You are too sweet, you know," she cooed, stepping back to reveal the pale blue dress she wore as she usurped the precious cheer-me-up gift.

"This is just what I needed after that disaster of a campaign. Thanks." And she leaned in to reward him with a kiss on the lips, to which Heero pressed back, though his mind was still three frames back, focusing on that fabricated amused smirk staring at him from the distant couch that burned a hole through him.

* * *

A/N: Again, here I come with a bag full of reasons why I should have gotten the chapter out faster (actually, compared to some other chapters, I was pretty diligent about his one) but I think I'll skip most of them and just say I'm probably too damn busy for my own good, or the welfare of my updating schedule. Just took the PSAT's and the ACT is on Saturday the 22nd for me. Whoopee. Anyway, the title is French for the wild daisy. The "meaning" of which, as I understand it, is "Dost thou love me?". I'm so mean to Heero, and then I turn around and do all the more horrible damage to Duo, don't I? Poor guy but the story must be told. 


	16. Hand Grenade Heart

Chapter 16

"Hand-Grenade Heart"

Ever since that three-megaton chunk of Libra had been incinerated in Earth's atmosphere all those years ago, Duo considered himself a man of peace. He abandoned his nasty remaining habit of casual pick pocketing, faithfully backed down from fights, though more for the other's sake rather than an exercise of tact, and had even attempted in good spirit, but in vain, to amend his impressive reputation for cussing. After all, one good turn deserved another, and save for the Christmas Day coup, he'd stuck mostly to it. But whatever scraps of good religion and pacifism left in him were a distant memory to Duo as he sat on that couch and watched Relena greet her fiancé as he came striding blindly in. It certainly wasn't any easier to watch their lips meet in a kiss and when Relena sat him down next to him in the den, as every one had gathered there that morning, Duo's legs were giving the most peculiar twitches—like he was about to leap to his feet and shove her away from the poor, almost bewildered-looking Heero. Not that he would ever purposely harbor such thoughts, no, of _course_—but it was all he thought about.

So there he determinedly sat, painting on a crooked smirk, staring fire at Relena as she got cozy with Heero and happily opened her gift. He had barely noticed that Trowa and Quatre, also sitting together as if to further accentuate the fact that he sat alone, in his pajamas, still thoroughly ruffled from sleep, had started talking. Relena lifted her head, putting a truffle in her mouth, and smiled at them, saying something. She nodded and Heero still hadn't snapped out of the reverie influencing ever since he had stepped inside. He glanced at Relena, then to Trowa, Quatre, and Duo, blinking as if he'd just woken up.

But the bewildered look didn't last long, as his mouth tightened and he furrowed an eyebrow, back to his old, reliably inquiring self.

"What are you doing back so soon?" he asked while she daintily put another chocolate in her mouth. "You were supposed to be in Pakistan for at least another day. What happened?"

She looked at him quite innocently, stopping in her surprise from devouring another chocolate. "You didn't hear?" she asked in return, receiving the standard displeased look when answering Heero Yuy with another question. "I thought you would have seen the papers. They've been besides themselves with joy covering it. It was chaos. There was nothing productive I could get done in such a frenzy, anyway."

From beside her she dutifully produced a folded newspaper and gave it to Heero, not looking the least happy to see her own image in bold ink, receiving a most unexpected slap from a disgruntled female Pakistani politician, denouncing her and her politics in the most straightforward way possible. The paper crackled as Heero quickly unfolded it, scanning the headlines and the biting rows of writing with brows drawn and his mouth turning crooked and unhappy. Duo was honestly amazed it didn't immediately burst into flame when he looked back up, his fingers crumpling the sides of the newspaper.

"What happened?" he asked firmly, sitting up straighter and turning his gaze onto his fiancé, no doubt looking for suspicions of bruises under her makeup. "Are you alright?"

"Ooh, somebody's in trouble," Duo muttered under his breath. "No one slaps _Heero's_ princess. Hopefully someone's remembered to lock the gun case this morning." He smiled wickedly to himself.

But when Heero gently touched her face, turning it toward his for closer examination, Duo's smile vanished and his stomach yanked him to his feet, violently jumping into the pit of his jealous chest.

Without noticing Quatre glance over at him cautiously, he feigned a long, casual stretch as he stood off the couch and began to stroll back toward the garage door. Moving with no more languid concern than a disinterested cat, Duo disappeared back into his room with no more noise than a memory. Something about his lazy gait made a valve twist in his chest, dousing him with a sudden and ice cold pang of grief that was distinctly not his own. Duo's disheveled tail of hair swung at his back like a pendulum as he shut the door breezily behind him, to all appearances completely unaffected, but left a choking trail of resentment behind him.

Heero and Relena continued talking, the latter trying to remain unruffled and composed (and also trying to manage a few sweets in her mouth before another bout of interrogation began) while the former demanded to know just what had happened—frustrated and upset something like this had escaped his radar completely.

He hovered next to her, comically seeming to try and puff up like a mother hen to shield whatever blows may befall her here, in the privacy of her own secluded home. To him, Relena was a living symbol of the peace of they had earned, and he fiercely protected her, his way of protecting the fragile standstill of war and bloodshed for as long as possible. It was Heero's way of protecting something so precious but so abstract. Peace could not be completely shielded by buildings or locked away from harm by lock and key, so he symbolically shielded it in her.

But it didn't seem that Relena needed any of Heero's stern coddling. Quatre looked back at the closed door again, as if pulled by an inescapable wire of suffering Duo strung about the room. After a moment's silent consideration, he turned back to see Heero faithfully inquiring about the incident, his eyes intently set upon her face while political calculations went coursing through his brain. Quatre couldn't help but think how much he looked like an overbearing director there, trying to steer his young actress muse in what he saw as the right direction.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked. "They didn't try to attack you otherwise?"

Apparently having her share of coddling concern, Relena tried to avert it by changing the subject, but it was a vain attempt when dealing with Heero Yuy. When she asked how he had been during her absence, he immediately responded with another question.

Quatre sat up and quickly interrupted. "You look rather tired, Relena," he said compassionately. "You've had a long flight. I think you'd appreciate a long, hot shower, don't you? I've got something to discuss with Heero, anyway, and you could use a little relaxation."

Relena looked at Quatre like he was a miracle worker. "Yes, I would like that." And, after stuffing the last of the chocolate cherry truffles between her lips, smiling, and giving Heero a parting peck on the mouth, rose from the couch in her pale blue dress and traveled up the stairs, kicking off her shoes and carrying them in hand as she walked. Her fiancé, however, did not impart such a grateful expression on him, instead deciding to send him a more withering glance that clearly exhibited his aggravation with his decision.

"I am _not_ overbearing, Quatre," he said, knowing that innocent face wasn't exactly what it seemed.

"I didn't say that, Heero."

The Japanese man glanced again up the stairs as the blonde woman disappeared into their bedroom, exhausted from her flight, then sighed. "But you think it. Concern isn't a crime," he said quietly, though not compromising an inch on his stern tone. "I just worry about her."

"It isn't a crime," Quatre cried back quickly. "I'm not accusing you of anything, Heero. But I do think you should give her some room to breathe. She's had a tough time; she needs it. That's all I'm saying."

"Were you aware of this happening?" he asked sharply.

"We would have told you the second we found out," Trowa answered, thankfully more calm than the other two. Heero's gaze turned to rest on him, still defensive from staring at Quatre and warily training on him. "We're just as shocked as you. Neither Quatre nor I had any idea about this until she came home. How could we? We never watch television, and you're the one who hates reading the newspaper."

Not pleased. Fiery blue turned back to Quatre. He was obviously frustrated. He hesitated before speaking again, unable to form the right words in his bluster and settling for ones he was well familiar with. "I am _not_ overbearing."

"Heero, stop it. I never said you were. Why are you acting this way?"

When Heero's gaze didn't soften and he stiffened up, looking no less soothed by the moment, Trowa quickly straightened up in the defense of his own fiancé. "Calm down, Heero. We're not attacking you. And we're not hiding anything from you, so what's your problem?"

The Japanese man pinched his lips together, unable to wrestle down the overwhelming sense of betrayal stewing in his belly, agitated by Quatre's concerned look, to answer that question. He simply medicated it with a dosage of stubbornness, of which he had a more than bountiful amount storming inside. He couldn't think straight enough to respond rationally, anyway, and stood up, chocolate box in hand, and answered caustically, "I'm overbearing."

And with that, he stalked upstairs after his wife-to-be, leaving a strain of exasperation in the air, only adding to the pang of resentment Duo had left behind him. This left Quatre's head rather congested and he sighed, leaning back into the couch with a hand at his temple. Trowa, who was calmly reclined as well, looked over at the blonde and threw an arm over his shoulder, nudging him closer. Another tired sigh left his frame as he leaned into him. He shook his head while it still rang from the sharp peak of emotion he'd felt off Heero and the lingering traces of Duo's. He instead tried to focus his senses on Trowa's, which, though it had its own troubles, was like a calm lake surface in comparison.

"What's wrong with him, I don't know," he said, "but it's giving me such a headache."

Trowa was staring up at the second-level bedroom door through which Heero had disappeared, sequestering himself in the sanctuary of his room. At least there he could have a sense of control. He let out a low whistle of amazement. "That really threw him. I haven't seen him like that since—well, have you ever seen him like that?"

Quatre scoffed. "Not this bad, no. God, I've never seen him act so childish. He's always been tubborn, yes, but something else is wrong with him."

The Heavyarms pilot remained silent for a moment, carefully weighing his words before they left his mouth. He seemed to find himself doing that more and more often, especially around the tender subject that Heero was becoming among his friends, and it reminded him all too thoroughly of all those years ago, when Quatre had called him from a hospital in St. Petersburg and the many black days that had followed. "That really frightened him, being so oblivious to the fact she may have been in danger. He was only worried, Quatre. You know how he gets when he's anxious. He can't just sit still and let things happen to him or around him."

"But he doesn't stay up all night, stoking a fire to keep _her_ warm while she sleeps," he muttered in return, hand tiredly thrown over his face.

"Does Duo know about this?"

"No," Quatre said. "I don't think he does." Then, he hesitated. "Well—no, I'm not sure if he does or not."

Trowa tilted his head to look at him, giving it that knowing angle as his fiancé turned to meet the gaze. "He left in quite a hurry just now. He was content to talk to us and Relena, but couldn't get out of here fast enough when her husband-to-be came around."

By now, all the cheerful color of Quatre's face seemed to have disappeared to destinations unknown and far less troubled than where he sat, looking more and more defeated as he realized the weight of truth of his words—and then applied them to what he understood of said parties' relationship. It wasn't exactly what he would have liked to been worried about. He would have rather been fretting over how his tuxedo looked, or something satisfyingly trivial like that. And it was what caused him to bury his face in his hands and shake his head.

"I don't like this at all, Trowa. I don't like having to talk about the two of my best friends like this, and wonder if something is so terribly wrong between them," he groaned. "Allah, but it worries me."

The Heavyarms pilot seemed to be weighing something heavily in his mind before he spoke up solemnly. "We can always ask Duo if he knows. It'd be a start to finding out the truth behind this, at least." He smiled quietly and leaned down to look Quatre in the eye, still gently holding him to his side. "Heero needs our help again. You know he does, just as much as he did then."

"Right," he murmured back, looking distant. "But I still hate doing this to him. Sometimes it seems to hurt him so much to take our help."

Trowa snorted and smiled. "That's only because he's a stubborn bastard—through no fault of his own."

* * *

The bathroom door was cracked open, letting the steam accumulating inside slowly sift out, and it was where Heero's eyes rested lifelessly as his mind left him there, hollowly standing beside a bedpost with a only hand steadying him. He stood there silently in his bedroom. Snowflakes began drifting quietly outside as the sky dimmed to the rhythm of water streaming from the showerhead. Relena's blue dress was laid out on the bed, her matching shoes laid haphazardly on the carpet in a trail leading to the bathroom. But Heero was distant as he observed these things, again finding himself like a spectator to his own life, removed from the experience, only watching from the safety of a hazy cinema screen.

His eyes eventually flickered and came to rest on the white box of chocolates laid on the bed. He didn't need to move the lid or to count the empty spaces where there should have been a chocolate-covered cherry truffle, to feel an unpleasant lump in the pit of his stomach or to picture the lifeless smirk Duo bore at him as he walked in the house. The false way his face revealed nothing but a deliberate expression that was programmed and charted precisely to show nothing of consequence at all. Heero felt a sigh run through him, felt his body become somehow heavier just at that image, ghosted by that of Duo Maxwell sadly admitting how much of a coward he was. It would not leave him.

The worse part was knowing his face hid something, but not knowing what it was. Something lay there, in the way, between him and the truth he hid.

Heero did not notice that Relena had stepped out of the bathroom and was watching him. Steam poured out behind her, with her damp hair hanging around her face and a towel wrapped tightly around her. Her gentle blue eyes cautiously blinked at him, as if cautiously examining him for signs of life. She felt a lump in her own throat. She recognized that distant and bodiless look in Heero's eyes, when he was light years away from the grounding feel of the earth and instead a captive of his mind. She knew it all too well.

She called his name quietly and he did not move. Not even the slightest twitch of recognition. She sighed, "Oh, Heero," as she moved nearer, careful not to startle him.

He finally came back to life as she reached up and touched his arm, and startled anyway, sucking in a deep breath as if preparing for a blow and to defend himself. He jerked automatically away from her touch, unsettled by the sudden transition back to reality. She did not flinch, standing just a few inches short of him, and watched with a painful pang of lament as he took a second to recognize her, uncertainty instead flashing in his eyes for a moment. And then, his deadened face filled with an old sadness and he mumbled an apology.

Concern crossed her face, stronger than it had for months. She reached up and gently held the side of his face, keeping him grounded with a comforting touch from once again falling into the deep abyss of painful memories he contained. "What's wrong?"

He knew the question asked much more than simply why he had been standing there silently, but he could not answer it—how could he put that image into words and tell her? And how could he make her worry by answering truthfully, that he felt an incurable something coming over him, stronger than anything he'd felt for so many years?

So he lied and said instead, "I'm tired, that's all." He shook his head when she gave him another gentle but unconvinced look. "Really."

"You look exhausted, Heero," she said, then unhappily grimaced, looking troubled. "But that's not it, is it?" When she received no answer, she asked, "Why don't you say anything? You know you can tell me, if anyone, Heero. You know I'll always be here to listen."

But he said nothing. She sighed sadly at him. The Japanese man only stood there and buried himself in the embrace, putting his forehead against her shoulder as she reached up and held him, resting her hands on his back as if it could hold him in reality and keep him from the grief spreading within him like a cancer.

* * *

Duo had "the face" prepared and ready for when he stepped out of the garage and nudged the door behind him with a foot, acting as casual as he could muster. Freshly dressed and mop of hair successfully tamed for the day, he had expected at least some sign of life out in the living room—after all, that's where everybody had been when he'd left them, those parties he'd rather not see kissing Heero Yuy included as well. So when he reentered the room, only a short time after strolling out of it, feeling a certain sentiment of being unwelcome and therefore feeling no guilt in excusing himself to parts more accommodating, nobody was there.

Now, naturally, Duo found this to be quite of the ordinary. Normally, you would expect to find at least one of the four remaining after a span of only ten minutes, but none were to be seen. He cautiously peered back and forth around the room from the safety of the doorframe, sniffing around for signs of foul play. Something was not right about this, he knew, and his strangely-colored eyes fixated on a particular spot, burning a hole in the wall where his memory of the Prime Minister crashing into his best friend replayed cruelly. He broke the gaze, pushing the image at bay for a moment, while he shut the door behind him without a noise.

And an unusual silence followed it.

_Jesus, did I miss the Apocalypse or something? _

Just to remedy the unsettling sound of nothingness settling over the house all of a sudden, even void of the sound of eager paws flying across the floorboards, Duo stepped purposely heavily as he wandered back into the living room. There was no way he'd simply misplaced four human beings, or managed to lose track of them, like a pair of car keys. He'd left them here, and by all logic, they shouldn't have just vanished in a few moments. For heaven's sake—he'd heard them through the door arguing just minutes after he'd left, rather blinded and ready to change out of his tank and boxer shorts.

"Quatre?"

Nothing. Duo even missed the sound of proverbial crickets chirping a lonely response.

"Trowa?"

Duo even checked underneath the couch, pressing his cheek flat to the carpet, butt in the air. "'lo? Quat? Tro? Anybody home?"

Lifting his head, twisting the left corner of his grimace back toward his ear in a uniquely Heero-ish style, he glanced around again and muttered to himself. "Something is definitely up. Nice of them though to run off without breathing a word of it to little ol' Duo. _Nah_, he doesn't need to know."

Suddenly, a pair of unmistakable voices appeared above him. The former Deathscythe pilot whipped his head silently toward the sound, lips tightly pinched together, lifting an eyebrow in curiosity as he watched the blonde and his fiancé step quietly out of Heero's room on the second floor. First instinct and trained reaction told him to unleash a smile, authenticity optional, and call out to greet them. But morbid fascination made him hesitate, crouching near to the couch, and simply wait a moment, blinking silently. He watched Trowa give an uncharacteristic grunt of frustration as he silently slid the door shut, easing the transition with his palm against the door. Quatre stood, ramrod straight, seething a worry and anger that transformed his gentle countenance into something fiery and reckoning. Duo could taste the argument in the air—but why had they ushered themselves into Heero's room, and then so abruptly exited?

Their lips began moving furiously back and forth with exchanges of opinion and rebuttals, all at a level just beyond Duo's comprehension. A sudden, deep pang of paranoia told him that it was about him and the ungentle way his friends' lips twisted into those familiar syllables confirmed it as a certain coldness settled deep into his stomach. Duo cautiously kept his eyes trained on the pair as he moved, shadow-quiet, around the far end of the couch. He was determined to know just what the hell was so damned upsetting about him that Quatre was verbally punching his name out of his mouth, a heartbroken but heated light in his eyes.

He slunk, nearly too fast to be seen and too carefully done to be caught, to the wall just below the two lovebirds. Just out of their sight, he was finally close enough to catch the actual sounds of their conversation rather than a dubious translation off their fast-moving lips. He didn't feel quite so bad to know he was eavesdropping in a rather vile way on his best friends when he realized that Heero was also getting a verbal licking in their conversation as Quatre cursed him for being such a coward.

"We have to talk to him." Trowa.

"Yes, but do you really suggest doing that right now?"

"Would you rather wait until we've traveled halfway around the globe to solve this situation? Would that be more productive?"

The slight blonde sounded rather angry as he responded, still trying to keep his voice low as frustration flooded it. "Why can't this wait just a day? A few hours, Trowa? I'm not going to go in there and wake him when he's in such a fragile state to just to dredge up painful emotions against his will and _further_ upset him! And I'll be damned if you do it, or let Relena, for that matter!"

Duo let out a low whistle to himself. "Sheeyit. Never heard Quat swear—and no fucking way at Trowa!" he whispered.

Perhaps even more chilling was the firm and monotone voice Trowa adapted; his tone was far less amicable and compromising than it had been even in the war. "I'm equally concerned, but I will not allow any of this to progress further. Heero needs intervention before he begins hurting himself again—we all ignored the signs the first time Quatre, and he'll never be the same for it again. I'm willing to risk a little lack of sleep to—"

"He can't go through something like that. He's exhausted. Anything we try to accomplish will just pain him more if we don't let him recuperate a little. He won't say a word if he's too tired to think straight. You saw how he was this morning—"

"Then talk to Duo, at least!"

This seemed to set him back for a moment; all he responded with was a frustrated silence, no doubt boring a powerful look at his fiancé.

"Neither you nor I want anything to happen. But we need to act if we want to prevent something—if we really believe something harmful is going on, we can't sit back and let it seethe." Trowa was calmer now, but something about his even tone sent a chill cleanly down Duo's spine as he stood there beneath them, a wallflower to a desperate exchange, violet depths blankly gazing out into the snow-lit room.

Quatre sighed. His following words stabbed Duo in the chest to hear them spoken so bluntly. "Duo is just as likely to lie about it as is Heero. I can just see the way he'll grin and completely disrespect the question—if he doesn't want to talk about it, then he's even _worse_ than Heero."

"He'll listen to you."

"Like Heero will listen to you?" There was a barb in Quatre's voice and Duo would have enjoyed a little mental commentary about needing a little more sleep or a little more action with himself had he not been currently shocked and hurt by Quatre's opinion of him and prediction of his behavior. Sure—it was basically true—but it still stung him, imagining the expression accompaning those words.

_What the hell do they want from me? And what's so wrong with Heero?_

Another noise—the doorknob twisting to open a moment later—quieted their argument. Relena stepped out of the door with a subdued, even ashen expression and caught the gazes of Trowa and Quatre, who tensed a little at her unexpected entrance. With a sigh she pushed a few stray bangs out of heir face and closed the door behind her before she leaned against the door itself. They'd never seen the Vice Foreign Minister seem to simply droop, like a bloom in a cold snap, since they'd visited a Russian hospital years ago.

"He's finally sleeping," she uttered. "Though he didn't want to be." The words were struggling out of her mouth, weighted by something terribly heavy. Her blue eyes flickered back and forth from them, more slowly than normal. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

They both truthfully shook their heads.

"Well," she managed out, racked with another sigh, "I think I'll stay with him for a little while longer. He'll be out for some time now."

"Hopefully," Quatre added solemnly. The well-placed glance from Trowa was not lost on him, either.

"Why don't you two get out of here for a while?" A weak smile crossed her face. She tried hard to not to let her concern blare through her attempt at humor. "I've had enough of haunted faces around here. Take Duo out to see the city. He'll enjoy it, and he doesn't need to see Heero like this."

Quatre nodded, smiling back at her, before following Trowa back down the stairs and allowing her to silently slip back into the room and disappear. The pilots had just gotten to the bottom of the stairs when the garage door cracked open and the American slid out, just finishing the bottom of his braid and curling the long plait of hair around to the front as he tied off the end, whistling an old pre-colony tune to himself, the picture of innocence. Quatre grimaced to himself before calling out to Duo, preparing to take the Minister's advice to the fullest, if only to distract himself a little as well. He could tell this was not going to be fun when Duo looked up at him with those knowing eyes and a hypocrite of a carefree smile.

No actor was perfect.


End file.
